


Elysium

by ForevertheOptimist



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A little bit of Johnlock, Gen, Parallel Universes, allusions to self harm and suicide in one chapter only
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2016-08-17
Packaged: 2018-08-09 12:00:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 41,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7801102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForevertheOptimist/pseuds/ForevertheOptimist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his best friend disappears through a crack in time and space, John Watson is thrust into a world he never dreamed existed. He, Clara, and the Doctor will journey through universes to save Sherlock, as well as uncover a plot by their archenemies and find a long-lost love. But this all-too-perfect parallel universe begs the question: when caught between a dream come true and cold, hard reality, who would choose to leave Elysium?</p><p>For Clara and the Doctor, this is set right after Journey to the Centre of the TARDIS. For John and Sherlock, between The Sign of Three and HIs Last Vow. For Rose, after Doomsday but before Journey's End. For the Master, after Utopia but before The Sound of Drums. For Moriarty, before all of Sherlock. Hopefully that makes sense.</p><p>This is based on a youtube trailer of the same name, which is incredible. Highly recommended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sherlock?

It was a warm summer day in London, and the streets were as quiet as they ever are. Millions of Londoners were going about their lives in typical fashion. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were no exception to this. However, a typical day for these two extraordinary men was far from typical for most. 

“Come on, John!” Sherlock cried, pulling his companion along. “We can lose him up here.”

“That's what you said last time,” John puffed, increasing his speed, “and then we ended up in the gardens of Buckingham Palace.”

“It was foggy,” Sherlock retorted, “and they changed the street signs on us. I know this part of town. This way!” 

He yanked John around a corner, pelting down another city block. “None of this would have happened if you'd have kept your head,” John yelled, dodging around a street vendor. “I told you your deductions would get us in trouble some day.”

“It was accidental,” Sherlock said, irritable and almost defensive. “It's not like I can shut it off.”

“Telling the leader of the biggest gang in the city all the flaws in his chain of command while his whole gang was there?” John demanded. “Have a little common sense.”

“If he's foolish enough to let flaws exist, he deserves to have them exploited.”

“And then you had to go point out his bald spot-”

“Here!” 

Sherlock grabbed John by the collar of his jacket and yanked him bodily aside, pulling him down an alley. At the end, invisible from the street, was a tiny opening, more of a hole than an actual doorway. It was in here that the two men went to hide.

“Have we lost them?” John whispered, peering around the corner. Sherlock hauled him back.

“The odds are good,” he said softly. “We'll know soon.”

And indeed, only moments later, they heard pounding footsteps first growing in volume, then fading as their pursuers passed them by. 

John's sigh of relief was audible. “Jesus, Sherlock, it's too hot to be doing this,” he muttered, wiping his brow. “Think next time.”

“John, I do nothing but think.” Sherlock pulled off his scarf, sweating. 

“Well, think more, then.” With a sigh, John stretched his back, ready to get up. “I guess we'd better get back. Should I call a cab?”

He received no answer. 

“Sherlock?”

John turned around to see his friend peering further down the alley. It was what he was staring at, however, that truly caught John's attention.

On the wall at the end of the alley, a long, thick, v-shaped crack stretched through the brickwork. This in itself was nothing unusual - this was an old part of town and cracks of the sort were commonplace. What distinguished this crack was that through it shone a bright white light, pouring evenly through every part and illuminating the back of their hideout. 

“Hold this,” Sherlock said, tossing John his folded scarf as he pulled out his pocket magnifying glass. John complied, snatching the scarf out of the air without once taking his eyes off the glowing crack.

“What is it?” he asked in wonder. Sherlock glanced back at him.

“A crack,” he replied with a hint of a grin, before turning back to the wall. “It's what's behind it that I'm interested in.” He got down on his knees, putting his eyes level with the light. “It's completely uniform,” he murmured, running a finger along the edge. “Not a natural light, then. And listen.” Sherlock bent over, pressing his ear to the wall. “There's voices.”

“Voices? What voices?”

“I don't know, I can't make any individual words out. Men's voices, I think.”

“Sherlock, it's probably just the inside of the building,” John said reasonably. “Let's go.”

“No, there's definitely more,” Sherlock murmured. “Look, John.”

John looked - but saw more than he reckoned on. The light seemed to take shape, shining white tendrils snaking out of the crack to wrap around the man kneeling before them.

“Sherlock,” he cried, “get away from there!” But Sherlock didn't move, didn't react, didn't even blink. “Get away!” John stepped forward, but the heat of the light pushed him back. He desperately wanted to pull him away, but some instinct told him that to touch the light would mean the same fate. 

He hung back, helpless, and watched as his friend was slowly surrounded in glowing coils. The light grew brighter and brighter until John was forced to look away, shielding his eyes. When at last the alley darkened, Sherlock was gone.

“Sherlock?” John hurried forward, looking around the corner and into the alley, certain his friend had somehow ducked around him. “Sherlock, what's going on?” But the alley was clear, and still Sherlock didn't answer. “SHERLOCK!”

Completely baffled, John ducked back into their hideout, scanning the tiny area for anywhere his friend might be hiding. There was nowhere. He was suddenly terrified, though he couldn't pinpoint exactly why. 

“He has to have gone through,” he told himself, looking around the empty space. “Into the building. That'll be it.” But upon returning to inspect the crack, John found to his further surprise that it was gone, the bricks as whole as if the crack had never existed. 

“What the hell?” he muttered, fighting down panic. He ran his hands along the unquestionably solid wall. There was no way around it - Sherlock was gone, and it appeared that he'd gone through the crack. 

Only now did the shock of the event begin to set in. Whatever John had witnessed, it was unlike anything he'd ever seen. He wasn't one to jump to conclusions, but the nagging feeling in the back of his mind whispered that the light was either extraterrestrial or supernatural. In this instance, he didn't have Sherlock here to reassure him.

Oh, God. He didn't have Sherlock. Here was the heart of the problem: Sherlock was gone, and John couldn't follow. He went to pound in the wall, determined to force it to yield up his friend, and only then did he realize that he still held Sherlock's scarf. 

“Dammit, Sherlock,” he whispered, clutching it tightly. “You said you wouldn't leave me again. I dealt with you dying once, and I-" His voice broke. “I'm not sure I can do it again.”

Slowly, John put his back to the wall, skidding down until he was crouched on the dirty alley floor. The injustice of the thing, he realized, was that if he had been the one to vanish into thin air, Sherlock would undoubtedly be able to determine exactly what had happened and find a way to sort it out. John, however…

It should have been me, he thought, unconsciously wrapping the scarf around one hand. Not him. He could deal with this, no problem. And London needs him. He shook his head, smiling bitterly. I need him.

Then don't just stand there! another voice admonished him. Go find him! He could almost hear Sherlock mocking him for his doldrums. What good is moping, John? Is sitting there going to find me?

“I know, Sherlock,” he sighed, rubbing his eyes. “I just-”

At least this time, you know I'm not dead. Sherlock's voice seemed to mock him. Giving up so easily?

“Bastard,” he muttered. “Manipulative bastard.” But he got to his feet with new determination, knotting the deep blue scarf around his neck precisely the way Sherlock always did. “Fine. You win.” He sighed. “Let's go find Sherlock.”


	2. Sherlock Who?

John paid the cabbie and trudged up the stairs to the door of 221b Baker Street. Despite his resolve to seek out Sherlock, he really had no idea where to start, and so had decided to head home. 

“Mrs. Hudson,” he called, letting himself in, “you haven't seen Sherlock, have you? Has he ever disappeared before?” 

“Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson bustled out of her kitchen, feather duster in hand. “Sherlock who?”

John stared. “What d’you mean, Sherlock who?”

“Well, it's a funny sort of name, isn't it, not one you hear very often. I'm sure I'd remember.” She was busily dusting the banisters, oblivious to her tenant's shock.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he said, very plainly. “He lives upstairs? We shared the flat.”

“Oh, you do get such funny ideas sometimes, don't you?” she giggled. “John, you've lived there alone ever since you moved in. I've been trying to get you to take someone on for years, but you kept saying you hadn't found the right person.” She paused, turning to him in excitement. “Have you finally found someone?”

“No, sort of the opposite.” John slumped against the wall, running a hand through his hair. Mrs. Hudson, oblivious, chattered away.

“Of course, if you went out once in a while, things might be a different story. Oh! I'm not trying to offend, dear,” she added, patting him on the shoulder with the duster. “But you've been such a recluse!” She stopped suddenly, peering at his ashen face. “Why, John, are you alright?”

“Er, fine, yeah.” He shook his head. “Can I… can I go upstairs?”

“Well, I'm not going to stop you, dear, it's your flat.”

“Of course. It's-” He stopped, choking on the words. “My flat? But I got married, I moved out! I haven't lived here in ages!”

“Well, I hope that's not the case, or I owe you an awful lot if rent money,” Mrs. Hudson tittered. “And married? Goodness, I'd think I'd have known.” She looked at him closely again. “You haven't been drinking, have you?”

“No, I don't think so,” he said vaguely, trying to process this new surprise. “Excuse me.” Leaving his landlady bewildered at the bottom of the stairs, John hurried up to the flat he had over shared with Sherlock - and, apparently, the one he still occupied. 

To his surprise, it was largely unchanged. Much of the furniture was where he expected it, but there were a few notable exceptions. The skull was gone from the mantel, the bullet holes from the wall, and many of the books from the bookshelves. In addition, the room was clean and free of dust. 

Dust is eloquent, Sherlock had said on one memorable occasion. Mrs. Hudson had obviously been in to clean, and she had done her work thoroughly, something Sherlock would never have allowed.

It was becoming clearer and clearer to John that whatever had happened to Sherlock had much farther-reaching repercussions than his simple disappearance.

On a hunch, John pulled out his mobile and dialed Lestrade. After four rings, the detective inspector picked up.

“Hello?”

“Greg, it's John. I-"

“John?” The voice on the other end of the line registered no recognition. “Sorry, who?”

“John Watson?” John collapsed into his armchair, almost unable to be any more surprised. “Retired army doctor, we’ve been working together… You don't know who I am, do you?”

“Should I?” Lestrade was definitely growing suspicious now, John could tell. “How did you get this number?”

“Never mind,” John said wearily. He knew there would be no point in asking, but felt bound to try. “Just answer this: does the name ‘Sherlock Holmes’ mean anything to you?”

“Sherlock Holmes?” John heard keys clicking in the background - Lestrade was typing something. “The name doesn't register. Are you reporting a missing person?”

John almost laughed. “Yeah, you could say that. Look, I'm sorry to bother you, detective. I won't call again.” Before Lestrade could respond, John had hung up.

He sat for a moment in his familiar old armchair, thinking about everything that had happened. Two of the three people he knew to be Sherlock's closest friends had no idea who he was, and even the police force database didn't register him as existing. 

The police force database? John thought for a second, then smiled slightly and punched another number into his mobile. I think I know a higher authority. The phone had hardly begun to ring before it was answered.

“Be aware that agents are tracing this call and anything you say will be held against you,” Mycroft Holmes’ level voice said coolly. “Hello.”

“Hello to you too, Mycroft,” John said, faintly amused. “It’s John, John Watson. Listen, have you done something with Sherlock?” 

“I don’t see that you have any right to any information,” Mycroft said stiffly, falsely amiable. “I am not in the habit of divulging state secrets to civilians.”

“Oh, come off it,” John said irritably. “I just want to know if you’ve done something with him. Sherlock Holmes. Is he still alive?”

“Mr. Watson, I do not know who you are, but it is of little consequence.” Mycroft’s tone was almost condescendingly pleasant now. “I have nothing to do with this matter.”

“For God’s sake, he’s your brother!” John yelled before Mycroft could hang up. From downstairs he could hear Mrs. Hudson’s squeak of alarm at the sudden noise. “Just tell me!”

“I am not familiar with any person by that name, and I resent your implications.” His voice was utterly lacking in emotion, which was not atypical, but John sensed he was telling the truth. “Do not attempt to contact this number again or you will feel the force of a full investigation. Good day.” There was a click and the line went dead.

John flopped back in his chair with a sigh, tossing the phone aside. There really was no other conclusion to be drawn: Sherlock Holmes no longer existed, and it seemed he never had. Except in John's memory.

For a second, John wondered just how far this would stretch. If he'd never met Sherlock… 

I suppose I'd never have met Lestrade. Or Mycroft. Or Mary. I guess Stamford helped me find my way to the flat. But beyond that, however, he had no idea.

John stared at the empty chair in front of him. It took hardly any effort at all to imagine him sitting across from him, playing his violin or lost in thought. For the first time, he began to consider the possibility that Sherlock might not come back at all. 

“No,” he said aloud, squashing the unsettling thought. “Not again. I'm not giving up, Sherlock. I'm never giving up on you.”

For the rest of the night, John could be found in that armchair, staring at the empty one across from him and vowing that whatever it took, he would get his friend back where he belonged: right with him.  
As the days passed, John began to get accustomed to life as it now was. He returned to work at the hospital and found it much unchanged, though Mary was nowhere to be found. 221b without Sherlock was nearly unbearable - everywhere he turned he found reminders of Sherlock's absence: a clean refrigerator, no test tubes mixed in with the silverware. According to Mrs. Hudson, he became even more reclusive and taciturn, staying in the flat whenever he could. He took to wearing the abandoned scarf everywhere.

The one thing that continued to nag at him, though, was the manner of Sherlock's disappearance. It was completely inexplicable, try though he might to apply all the principles of logic Sherlock had taught him. He could find no solution that would fit with the world as he knew it.

When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth...

Each day John was drawn back to the alley, simply watching and wondering, but was unable to discover anything unusual about it.

From time to time, he began to wonder if he really had imagined his friend. He'd heard plenty of stories - PTSD, shock, all could lead to hallucinations. Maybe I've finally lost it.

Until, that is, the day the blue police box fell out of the sky.


	3. Sherlock? Where?

He was crouched in their hideout, once more examining the wall, when a sudden breeze buffeted his back. Frowning, John turned around. Nothing seemed to be there, but he heard a strange wheezing, groaning sound.

Stepping out of the space, John peered around the alley, searching for the source of the noise. “Anyone there?” he called, fighting down the sudden flare of hope.

The only answer he received was the form of a large blue police box slowly materializing in the center of the alley.

John backed up hurriedly, flattening himself against the alley wall as the box came in for a landing. He held his breath as one of the doors swung open.

“Come on, Clara, don't want to miss it.”

A tall man stepped out of the box, dressed curiously in a patched jacket and a bow tie. He bent over to examine the wall, oblivious to John's presence.

“Yes, alright, I'm coming.” The man was followed by a young woman, who hopped out of the box and closed the door tightly behind her. She was very petite, with short brown hair and enormous eyes. Presumably this was Clara. “But I don't see what's so exciting about some crack.”

John's breath caught in his chest. Surely, with such a strange arrival, these two had to be looking for the same crack. If there was anything he'd learned in his years with Sherlock, it was that there are no coincidences. He tried to stay quiet, slowly rubbing the end of Sherlock's scarf between his fingers.

“I told you, Clara, it's a crack in space and time,” the man told her, now pulling a long, thin machine with a green light on top out of his pocket. “Universes bleeding through into each other, tears in the fabric of reality. That's definitely cool.”

“If you say so, Doctor.” Clara leaned against the doors of the box. “I don't see any special cracks, though.”

“Yes, I think we must have missed it.” The man - The Doctor - was palpably disappointed. He kicked the box angrily. “Type 40 TARDIS, not the most reliable model.” With a sigh, he stowed the strange device back in his pocket. “How late do you suppose we are? Minutes? Hours? Days, maybe?”

“Try a week,” John said, making his presence known at last. He was certain now that these people were dealing with the same crack that had stolen Sherlock, and they would be his best chance of getting him back, however odd they seemed. 

Clara and the Doctor turned to him in surprise. “Oh, hello!” the Doctor cried, bounding over and shaking his hand. “I'm the Doctor, this is Clara, we're time travelers, and did you say something about that crack?”

“Er, yes,” John said, somewhat startled by this warm greeting. “I think my-” He swallowed hard, clutching the end of the scarf. “I think my friend may have been pulled through it last week. Did you say you were time travelers?” he added, not quite able to believe his ears.

“Yes, time travelers.” The Doctor grinned. “Space ship back there, see?” He pointed quickly to the little box, then turned back to John. “Now then, your friend. Pulled through, you say. That's interesting. Where?”

John pointed. The Doctor pulled out the device again, hurrying over to the spot without so much of a goodbye. Clara smiled.

“Sorry about that,” she said. “He gets like that sometimes. All wrapped up in what he's doing, he forgets he's dealing with people.”

“Yeah, I know how that goes,” John told her, almost laughing. “Sherlock does that a lot.”

“Hold on, Sherlock?” Clara asked, eyes widening. 

“Yes?” John was puzzled at her sudden interest. “Sherlock Holmes. Do you know him?”

“Oh my God.” Clara clapped her hands to her mouth, almost bouncing in excitement. “Sherlock Holmes. So then you must be John Watson! Oh, I've read all about you! Doctor!” She dashed over to her companion, leaving John bewildered. “Doctor, the missing friend is Sherlock Holmes, and that's Dr. Watson.”

“No.” The Doctor stood up, staring at Clara in astonishment. She nodded excitedly. “The Sherlock Holmes?”

“You've heard of him, then?” John asked, confused but pleased.

“Heard of him?” Clara cried. “Everyone's heard of Sherlock Holmes, he's the most famous detective in literary history! Oh, I'm such a huge fan!”

“Oh, I see,” John said, comprehension dawning. “You read my blog.”

“Your blog?” Clara repeated. She tapped the Doctor on the shoulder, grinning from ear to ear. “Doctor, he's got a blog.”

“Alright, Clara, calm down,” the Doctor said, peering curiously at John. “I don't think this is quite who you think.”

“What d'you mean, of course he is!” she exclaimed. “John Watson, retired army doctor, best friend of Sherlock Holmes, right?” This last bit was addressed to John, who nodded. Clara turned to the Doctor. “See? I know all about you!” she gushed.

“Ah, be careful with that,” the Doctor cautioned her. “You never know everything about anyone. Take me for example,” he added with a grin. “For all you know I skip out once a week to sock hop with St. Peter.”

Clara and John stared at him, he with astonishment and disbelief, she with curiosity. “Do you?” she asked. 

“Ah, now, that'd be telling.” He winked at John. “Love a sock hop.”

“Well, I've read the stories, at least,” she told John, dismissing the Doctor's foolishness, “all of them. I loved A Study in Scarlett. Brilliant.”

“You mean, A Study in Pink?” John asked, confused even more. 

“Clara, listen,” the Doctor said, pulling her aside. “Whoever this is, he is not Doyle's Watson.”

“How can you be so sure?” Clara demanded. John watched in baffled interest.

“Well, for one thing, this is modern London, not Victorian London,” the Doctor told her, glancing apologetically at John. “For another, Sherlock Holmes is fictional.”

“Fictional?” John repeated. Some of his hope was fading - was thinking Sherlock wasn't real better than not knowing he existed at all?

“Well, what do you think he is?” Clara asked impatiently. “Some kind of alien?”

“Clara, don't be rude,” the Doctor admonished her, pulling out the strange device and pointing it at John before he had a chance to react. “Definitely not an alien.”

“Well, that's good, then,” John said waspishly. “Someone mind telling me what the bloody hell is going on here?”

“Sorry, sorry,” the Doctor said, running a hand through his hair. “Busy morning. Alright. I'm an alien, a Time Lord. I'm nearly a thousand years old, and my lovely companion and I are investigating these cracks you ran into a week ago. That's my ship, the TARDIS, back there.” He pointed back at the police box, then grinned. “It's bigger on the inside.”

“Of course it is.” John found that he had reached his capacity for shock for one day and was left with no choice but to accept what he had seen. “I wondered if that thing was alien.”

“Good eye.” The Doctor grinned at him.

“Are you an alien, too?” John asked Clara, ready to believe anything. “A Time Lord, or whatever?”

Clara laughed. “No, not me,” she told him. “I'm human through and through.”

“Good,” he said with feeling.

“But, hang on, how is this him?” Clara demanded of her companion, suddenly realizing who she was talking to. “If he's just a character in a story, how is he living in London?”

“I don't know for sure,” he admitted, looking at John contemplatively. “I can make a guess, though.”

“Well, go on, then,” Clara said, crossing her arms. “Sorry,” she added to John. “It's not every day you meet a storybook hero come to life.”

“That's alright,” John told her. “I must say I'm interested myself.” He forced down a laugh as he thought of what Sherlock would say to that. I'm not a hero, John. Heroes don't exist and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them. Clearly someone thought he was wrong.

“Two possibilities,” the Doctor said, running his hands together. “Either the cracks are allowing universes to bleed together, letting these characters imprint themselves as real people, or Arthur Conan Doyle was a time traveler.” He shrugged. “Probably could figure out which, if I had the time.”

“Which one do you think it is, though?” Clara asked, interested. “Your guesses are usually good.”

The Doctor shrugged, looking apologetically at John. “I really couldn't say. I always thought there was more to old Artie than met the eye. But these cracks are funny things. No one's quite sure what they do.”

“Alright.” John nodded to himself, deciding to ignore the madness of it all, accept everything at face value and focus on what was important. The Doctor seemed to decide this as well, turning to John.

“Now. Tell me more about your friend. Sherlock Holmes. What happened to him?”


	4. Get Him Back

“Tell me more about your friend. Sherlock Holmes. What happened to him?”

John swallowed hard, rubbing the end of the scarf. “Well, we were on the run from this gang - long story short, Sherlock can’t keep his mouth shut - and we went down there to hide.” He gestured vaguely towards the end of the alley. “And we saw this light.”

“From the crack?” the Doctor asked, glancing back at the smooth brick wall. “Sort of white, shimmery-looking?”

“Yes, exactly,” John confirmed. “Coming from the wall behind us. I figured it was just a crack, but Sherlock had to look closer. Idiot,” he muttered, shaking his head.

“What did it look like? Sort of a…” The Doctor waved his hands in a wobbly V. John nodded. 

“And then the light sort of came out and wrapped around him.” John was struggling to explain exactly what he had seen, but he sensed the Doctor understood. “Then it got brighter, too bright, and I had to look away, and when I looked back…” He shrugged. “Gone.”

“I thought so,” the Doctor muttered, running a hand through his hair. “Oh, that’s a problem.”

“Sorry, hold on,” Clara interrupted, raising a hand. “Did you say the light reached out and grabbed him? It’s light! Isn’t it?” she added, glancing uncertainly at the Doctor.

“I don’t know,” he answered helplessly. “There’s got to be more to it than just that. A gap between universes, pulling things, pulling people in. I’ve seen it before,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “Ages ago.”

“What happened?” John asked, hoping for the best. 

“To who?” Clara inquired, adding to John’s question. Glancing at her, John could see she knew more about it than he did.

“Hmm? Oh, it was a friend of mine, Rory,” the Doctor explained. “He… Well, he’d died, and one of those cracks opened up right next to him. Pulled him in, just like you said.” He gestured vaguely to John, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. 

“Did you ever find him again?” Clara seemed fascinated by the tale. John, too, was hanging on every word, but for a much different reason. Alive? he added mentally.

“Oh, yes, of course,” the Doctor told her brightly. “Took a while and a bit of a war, but yes.”

“And he was alright?” John persisted.

“Perfectly,” he reassured him. “Well, he got erased from time. Turned up as a Roman. And plastic. And then he waited outside a box for two thousand years, and then I rebooted the universe… It’s complicated. But he’s fine now.”

“Erased from time?” John repeated, mulling over the Doctor’s tale. It did seem to tally with what he’d seen - no one seemed to know he existed. Could it be because he really never had?

“Nasty bit of work, that. You never existed, means you never met anyone you know, so they don’t know you at all.”

“That’s horrible,” Clara murmured, shaking her head.

“Really, it’s very clean,” the Doctor admitted fairly. “No people left mourning, wondering where you are. No mess. No exit wounds.”

“But that’s what’s happened!” said John excitedly. “That’s exactly what’s happened! Our landlady doesn’t know who he is, Lestrade doesn’t know who he is-”

“Lestrade?” Clara exclaimed. “Detective for the Scotland Yard? I remember him from the books! What was his name, Grant? Graham?”

“Greg,” John corrected her automatically, hiding a smile.

“Greg. Of course. Oh, he was so - sorry.” She subsided at the Doctor’s sharp look, abashed, though her eyes were still smiling.

“Anyway, that’s it exactly,” John said into the silence that followed. “Gone, and no one knows a thing about him.”

“Except you,” the Doctor noted, watching John intently. John shifted, suddenly uncomfortable.

“Yes,” he said shortly. “Except me.” He touched the end of the scarf lightly, his smile not quite reach his eyes. The action did not go unnoticed.

“Why?” Clara asked, looking from one man to the other. “What’s different about him?”

The Doctor only shook his head. “I don't know. I really don't know.”

“You don't know Sherlock,” John told them. “He's impossible to forget.”

“Well, clearly he isn't,” the Doctor murmured. “I'm impressed, John. The devotion that would take…” He and Clara exchanged glances. 

John squirmed slightly, not sure what the Doctor was implying. “So, will you help me, then?” he asked. The Doctor's eyebrows went up.

“Help you? What with?”

Clara elbowed him in the side. “Don't be daft,” she scolded. “Why, getting Sherlock back! Am I right?” she asked John.

“Well, you clearly know something,” John said, the words spilling out in a rush. “About those cracks, I mean, so…” He shrugged. “Is there anything you can do?”

“John, he's been erased from space and time,” the Doctor said clearly. His expression was sympathetic. “He'll turn up or he won't. I'm sorry, but that's all.” He turned to go, heading back for the TARDIS. “Come on, Clara.”

Clara crossed her arms, shifting her weight to one leg. “No.”

The Doctor threw up his hands, exasperated. “Clara-”

“Doctor, it's Sherlock Holmes,” she pleaded. “You can't just leave him! How many friends have you lost, eh?” John saw the Doctor stiffen and wondered just how high that number might be. “You can come up with a way, I know you can,” she said softly. “Help him, Doctor.”

For a moment, the Doctor stood still, his back to the pair. John waited in silence, conscious of how much could hang on the man's answer.

Finally, softly, the Doctor spoke. “Sherlock Holmes, world famous detective, disappears through a crack in space and time, and only his best friend John Watson remembers that he ever existed.” When he turned around, he was grinning. “How about we go get him back?”


	5. Ready

“Yes!” Clara squealed, throwing herself forward and hugging the Doctor around the neck. “I knew you'd do it. He can't resist a puzzle,” she told John smugly. 

“Yeah, I know someone like that,” John muttered, smiling.

“I bet you do.” She grinned. “Come on, then!” Clara headed for the TARDIS, a skip in her step.

John breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you,” he said fervently to the Doctor. “Er… what're you going to do?”

“No idea,” said the Doctor airily. “I'll think of something, I expect. Usually do. This way.” He followed the young woman over to the TARDIS, grinning back at John.

John, walking along behind him, looked suspiciously at the blue police box. It was awfully small. “You said that's your… ship?” he asked, half-hoping the Doctor would say no. 

“Yep,” the Doctor said happily. “Type 40 TARDIS. I've had her for centuries. Not the most reliable thing, but we do alright.”

“Looks a bit snug,” John commented, trying not to be rude. But to his surprise, the Doctor only grinned. 

“Give her a chance, hey?” With a wink, he threw open the TARDIS doors and stepped inside. Skeptical, John followed.

And stopped. “Oh… my God. How-”

“I know,” the Doctor said, beaming at his surprise. 

“It's bigger on the inside!”

Clara and the Doctor shared a grin. “Good, isn't it?”

John looked about him in awe, taking in the entirety of the control room. After a few moments, he nodded. “Wow. Okay.”

“Come in, don't be shy,” Clara said brightly, leaning comfortably on the console. Slowly, John walked further inside, running his hands along the railing. 

“So you really know what all of these do?” he asked the Doctor, glancing at the myriad of buttons and levers arrayed on the console.

“Of course!” the Doctor cried indignantly. 

“Liar,” Clara said, amused. 

“Oi!” The Doctor rounded on her, shaking a finger at her. “I've been flying this TARDIS longer than most of your gene chain has been alive, so you can hush.”

She laughed. “All that and he still can't get us where we should be half the time,” she told John with a conspiratorial wink. He grinned.

“I could drop you off right now,” the Doctor said threateningly, but even John could tell there was no heat behind the words. 

Clara flashed her friend a pert smile. “Better get on with it, then.”

“Oh, bother.” The Doctor made a face at her, then turned back to John. “Over here, if you could.” He led him over to one of the console panels, prying up the cover. “I'm really not supposed to do this,” he muttered, heaving it aside. “Fingers in here, please.”

“Sorry, what?” John eyed the panel cautiously. It had six different smaller panels on it that had looked blue and shimmery until the Doctor uncovered them. Now they appeared to be full of orange goop. “In that?”

“Yes, go on, it's perfectly safe,” the Doctor said impatiently. “I'm linking you in to the TARDIS telepathic circuit. You'll be in complete mental contact with the machine, so be polite.”

Cautiously John stuck his fingers into the goo. The sensation was surprisingly pleasant. “Why am I doing this?” 

“You're the link to Sherlock,” the Doctor explained, dashing around the side of the console. “Across universes, apparently. The one thing, the only thing still connected to him. Memories are powerful things, John, and yours might be more powerful than most. If there's any way to find him and bring him back, this should do it.”

“Alright.” That seemed to make sense to John. “So what exactly do I need to do?”

“Just think about Sherlock. Finding Sherlock, being with Sherlock-”

“In any capacity,” Clara added under her breath, a mischievous glint in her eye. John glanced at her, confused and a touch suspicious.

“Yes, in any capacity,” the Doctor continued, oblivious. “Just so long as you think of him and only him. The TARDIS will go through your subconscious and pull out what's important.” 

John raised an eyebrow, impressed. “That's clever.”

“I told you she was good.” He punched a few buttons on the console. “I've turned the safeguards and the nav-com off, so it's all you.” He paused, his hand resting on a large lever. “Ready?”

“As much as I'll ever be.” John closed his eyes, concentrating only on Sherlock. The Doctor glanced quickly at Clara, who nodded, then pulled the lever down.

“Woohoo!” The engines churned into action, the entire TARDIS lurching. “Careful now, dear,” the Doctor said, patting the console with one hand and gripping it tightly with the other. “We've got guests.”

“Is it always this rough?” John asked, trying not to lose his footing. 

“Of course not,” the Doctor answered indignantly.

“Usually, yes,” Clara said in the same instant. They grinned at each other before another jolt sent them all staggering again.

“Leave the man be, he needs to concentrate,” the Doctor reminded her, casting a worried glance at John. 

“Yes, alright. But seriously, Doctor,” she said, flipping the hair out of her face, “what's going on?”

“I don't know. She's not happy. Blimey, John,” the Doctor muttered, pulling himself to one of the hanging monitors. “Where are you taking us?”

“Well, how should I know?” he retorted, closing his eyes tightly. “It's your bloody time machine.”

“What’s it say?” Clara demanded, watching the Doctor typing frantically. “Doctor?”

“She’s figured out where we’re going,” he explained, grabbing desperately for the edge of the screen as the TARDIS lurched suddenly to one side. “She’s against it.”

“You talk about it like it’s alive,” John commented, glancing sideways at the Doctor. The Time Lord grinned at him.

“Well, that’s sort of up for debate. Oi!” A shower of sparks exploded from the console. “Alright, alright, I’m sorry!” 

“They’ve got an interesting relationship,” Clara explained, grinning. “She doesn’t like me much, though-” She broke off, coughing, as a cloud of smoke shot towards her, enfolding her head. “Really?”

“She’s just stressed!” the Doctor yelled, punching buttons right and left. Clara shook her head at his defense of the machine, fanning away the smoke with her hand. “Something’s overriding my controls!”

“Well, you did turn the nav-com off,” Clara reminded him. “You know what happened last time.”

“What happened?” John asked, his interest piqued in spite of himself.

“He turned the shields off and we got picked up by some space junk salvagers,” she told him, watching the Doctor for his reaction. “Almost ended up destroying the TARDIS, which is not an easy thing to do.”

“Space junk salvagers,” John repeated, somewhat incredulous. “Not a phrase you hear every day.”

“Focus, John!” the Doctor called from the other side of the console. “This is different, less physical. We're being pulled in, but there's nothing doing the pulling. Just a pull.”

“What, like magnets or something?” Clara asked. The TARDIS lurched again, sending them reeling.

“Something like that.” He glanced over at John, still deep in concentration. “Similar, anyway. Definitely a force of attraction.”

Clara snickered. “Nothing, nothing,” she said to the Doctor's obliviously curious glance. “So where is this pulling us?”

“I don't know yet,” he replied, swaying as the TARDIS bucked and rolled. “Got to run a diagnostic scan first.”

“But it’s bad,” Clara said, confirming.

“Bad, very bad, yes. Several millennia and a week from good,” he said, his attention clearly distracted. “John, you're the only thing keeping us on course,” he called. “Don't let your thoughts waver, or I've no idea where we'll end up.”

“No pressure,” Clara added with a smile. John glanced over at her, acknowledging her joke with a tight nod. 

Suddenly the TARDIS let out a loud ding, almost like a microwave. Instantly, the main lights in the TARDIS went out, leaving only the console lights. The entire control room began to shake.

“What’s happened?” Clara yelled, scrambling to find something to hang on to that wasn’t covered in buttons. John was nearly thrown to the floor, trying desperately to keep his fingers in the goo, his feet on the ground, and his mind on Sherlock.

“Diagnostic’s finished,” the Doctor gasped, pulling over one of the screens. “No wonder she's not happy. And now that she knows, she's going to do everything she can to stop us.”

“Stop us from what-” John started to ask, but the Doctor cut him off. 

“Focus!” he cried, somewhat frantic. “Now or never, John! Every second matters!”

“But where are we going?” Clara shrieked. More sparks flew from the console, illuminating the control room with lightning flashes. The Doctor grinned maniacally at her.

“Right through the crack,” he called, breathless. 

“What? Are you insane?” she demanded. “Won't we get erased? Doctor, we could die!” The engines began to speed up, the Center of the console churning up and down, faster and faster.

“I know.” He smiled at her, laughing with childlike delight as the room shook and flashed. Despite the chaos, John could tell the man was in his element. “Ready?”

“No.”

“Me either. Here we go!” 

The Doctor pulled a lever and the TARDIS gave an almighty lurch, knocking them all off their feet. 

John squeezed his eyes shut as the room filled with the same white light he'd seen a week before. He clawed his way blindly to a railing and hung on for dear life as the entire room rocked until he was hardly sure which way was up. Whistles and dings could be heard seemingly at random, and John wholeheartedly hoped that they meant something good. He tucked his chin and waited as the chaos built to a climax. 

Then, with a thud, the TARDIS came to an abrupt halt. The engines stopped, the noises ceased, and everything, at last, was still. Wherever they were going, they had arrived.


	6. Lost and Found

Slowly, cautiously, John picked himself up from the floor. He peered around the dimly lit control room, coughing from the smoke.

“Everyone alright?” the Doctor called from the other side. John saw his hazy figure rising out of the fog.

“I'm here,” Clara answered, groaning. “Bruised a bit, but I'm here.”

“Fine, thanks.” John waved a hand in front of his face, trying to clear the air. “What happened?”

“The crack scared her, I think,” the Doctor guessed, punching a few buttons experimentally. Nothing happened, so far as John could see. “She's gone into lockdown. Like a turtle pulling its head into its shell.”

“But you can fix it, right?” Clara asked.

“Course. Well, she can fix herself, actually,” he corrected himself. “Given a bit of time. In the meantime, though, we should probably get out.”

“Good idea,” John agreed. “See where we are.”

“Yes, there is that,” the Doctor said somewhat sheepishly. “And this smoke may or may not be toxic.”

“Oh my God. Doctor!” Clara ran for the door, both men hot on her heels. They burst out of the gloom into the dusky summer evening twilight, the Doctor shutting the door tightly behind him, and stopped short, blinking. Clara immediately rounded on the Doctor. 

“What were you thinking?” she demanded. “You knew it was toxic and were more worried about whether we were alive?”

“To be fair, that is pretty important,” John put in reasonably. Clara ignored him.

“I didn't know that it was toxic,” the Doctor said, holding up his hands. “I just said it might be. And you're fine, aren't you?”

“Well, yes, but that's not the point-”

“The point is,” the Doctor said quickly before Clara could continue, “we've clearly moved. So where are we?”

It was an excellent question. They had landed in what looked like someone's backyard - a well-trimmed garden with a quaint house, almost like something out of a picture book. The TARDIS was right in front of a shed, in the middle of a flowerbed.

“I think maybe the question is more ‘whose flowers have we crushed,’ don't you think?” Clara asked, glancing back at the TARDIS. The Doctor started guiltily. 

“Er, yes, we should probably find out.” The Doctor got down on his knees, trying to prop some of the flowers back up. Clara shook her head, smiling, but went to help him, trying to hide the damage.

John's attention, however, was elsewhere: he was watching the blonde woman who was standing at the edge of the yard. She was of medium height, dressed in jeans and a grey t-shirt with a slanted capital T on it. She also looked utterly shocked, which John didn't find surprising, seeing as a blue box had landed in her plants. A watering can was tipped on its side at her feet, suggesting she'd dropped it. “Maybe they're her flowers?” he suggested. 

“Who?” The Doctor looked up - and froze. His eyes widened as they met the woman's. “Rose,” he whispered.

“No, actually, I think they're petunias,” Clara said, oblivious. “See, look at the petals…” She trailed off, noticing now that the Doctor paid her no attention. He had eyes only for the blonde woman, who now looked equal parts nervous and overjoyed. “Doctor?”

He got up slowly, as if in a dream, and walked across the garden towards her. She met him halfway, stopping just within arms reach.

“Hello, Rose.”

“Doctor?” she asked softly. He smiled, his expression more gentle than John had seen yet.

“Sorry about the flowers.” 

“Oh, those.” She didn’t once glance over at the trampled bed. “I didn’t like them much anyway.” She looked intently at him. “It’s really you, isn’t it?”

A smile spread slowly across his face, lighting up his eyes. “What gave it away?”

“Well, the TARDIS helped.” She laughed nervously, as though she'd like to look away but couldn't. “So you've done it again, then. Regenerated.”

“Yep.” He held out his arms, turning a bit. “What do you think?” John was interested to notice the Doctor was every bit as unsure as the mysterious young woman.

“It's different.” She reached out one hand, hesitating at first, as if unable to believe he was real, gently touching his blue bow tie, then his cheek. Smiling, she added, “I like it.”

He grinned, straightening the bow tie. “You'd better.” 

“Yeah, I guess.” The woman, Rose, laughed, then threw her arms around him. The Doctor returned her hug willingly, hiding his face in her hair.

John sidled over the Clara. “Any idea who she is?” he whispered, hoping she'd know more than he did. But the young woman only shook her head. 

“No idea,” she replied, watching them closely. “She's someone special, though.” Looking at the couple, John had to agree.

The strange woman pulled back and shook her head, blonde hair falling in her face. “I thought I was never going to see you again.” She was crying now, smiling through her tears. The Doctor ducked his head.

“I'll admit I'm a bit surprised myself.” Hesitantly, he reached out and tucked her hair back, gently brushing away her tears. “Nice surprise, though.”

“Oh yeah.” Her voice was soft. “Very nice.” Then she stepped back, frowning slightly. “So you didn't come here to get me?”

“That wasn't the plan, no,” he admitted. “We're actually looking for someone. Someone else. Didn’t necessarily plan to come here.”

Rose raised an eyebrow. “We?” She glanced over his shoulder, meeting Clara's eyes. “You gonna introduce your friends?”

“Oh, right, of course!” She laughed as he took her hand and led her over to the TARDIS. “May I introduce Clara Oswald and John Watson?”

“Nice to meet you,” John said politely, waving. Clara smiled in agreement. He was, she noticed, still holding Rose’s hand. 

“John, Clara, this is Rose Tyler.” He smiled down at her, joy mixing with sadness. “We were… together, once. A long time ago.” 

“He had a different face back then,” Rose added, laughing. John blinked in surprise but decided to move on.

“What happened?” he asked. “Why did you… separate?” Clara was staring at the other woman with a mixture of curiosity and jealousy, tucked under a rigid smile. 

“Parallel universe,” answered the Doctor shortly. “Daleks and Cyberman, a massive war…” He glanced at Rose, who squeezed his hand. “It wasn’t fun. Is that where we are?” he added, looking around properly for the first time. “Parallel world? Pete’s world?”

“Pete’s world?” Clara repeated. John was still hung up wondering what a Dalek might be.

“Yeah, I guess,” Rose said, looking up at the Doctor. “How’d you get here? I thought you said you could never come through.”

“Didn’t think I could,” he admitted. “John was driving, though. Memories are more powerful than I thought.”

“Really?” Rose looked at John with renewed interest. “Are you traveling with him now, then?”

“No, not regularly,” John answered. “Just the once. We’re looking for my friend. She does, though.” He nodded to Clara, who smiled stiffly. Rose smiled back, equally as stiff. The Doctor suddenly looked distinctly uncomfortable.

“You are?” Rose asked, looking her up and down. “Really?”

“Yep.” Clara lifted her chin. “Problem?”

“Please don’t start,” the Doctor moaned. “I can’t stand fighting.”

Clara sighed. She’d seen the way the Doctor looked at this new woman and was smart enough to recognize it as a completely different relationship from her own. “Yes, we travel together,” she said, “as friends. That’s all.”

Rose looked at her intently for a moment, but understood she was being offered peace. “Good for you,” she said, her smile holding real warmth now. “He needs someone, doesn’t he?”

“Constantly,” Clara replied, grinning. 

“No, don’t start that either,” the Doctor jumped in, raising a finger. “I’ve had that before.”

“Start what?” Rose asked innocently.

“The bit where you… I don’t know, make fun of me together. ‘Does he still do this’ and all of that.” He looked terribly sorry he’d mentioned anything.

“Well, I was planning to,” Clara said mischievously, “but now that you mention it…”

The Doctor threw up his hands and both women exploded into laughter. John wasn’t quite sure he understood, but he’d been in the Army long enough to know the troubles of being caught between women. He cleared his throat loudly, stepping in. 

“Er, listen, this is nice and all, but we’re looking for my friend? Sherlock Holmes?”

Rose broke off, eyes widening. “Really? Wow. And he’s lost somewhere here, you think?” John’s surprise at her lack of astonishment must have shown on his face, because she grinned. “You meet a lot of famous people, traveling with him.” She bumped her shoulder into the Doctor’s, smiling up at him. “Sort of get used to it.”

“Yes, we think he’s here somewhere,” the Doctor told her, beaming in spite of himself. “Disappeared through a crack in the universe, I’ll tell you later. That’s funny that it came out here, though,” he added, looking around. “Pete’s world. I wonder why.”

“Maybe because you’ve been here before?” Rose suggested, chewing on a thumbnail. “Took you somewhere familiar?”

“Could be,” the Doctor agreed. “The cracks were caused by my TARDIS blowing up - tell you that later, too - so it could be. Good, isn’t she?” he added to the other two. 

“Have you seen him? Sherlock, I mean,” John persisted. He really wanted nothing more than to find Sherlock and get back home. “Heard of him, anything? He’s hard to miss.”

“Well, there’s a bloke who just moved in across town,” she said, considering. “Bit strange. Not sure if he’s Sherlock Holmes, but you could see.”

“Great. So we’ll just pop over in the TARDIS and pick him up-”

“Oh no,” Rose said, holding him back as he started for the box. “I’ve just found you again, I’m not having you disappear just yet. I’ve got plenty of space.” She looked up at him sweetly. “Be normal for once.”

John found himself agreeing heartily. As eager as he was to find Sherlock, it was getting rather late, and the amount of oddities he’d seen were catching up with him.

With a sigh, the Doctor nodded. “Fine. One night. Then we’re off! And you,” he added to Rose, “are coming with.”

Rose smiled. “Sure you won’t fade and disappear this time?” She was joking, but there was pain in her voice.

“I promise.”

“Well, good.” She laughed, taking his arm and beckoning to the others. “Come on. I’ll find you each a place to sleep.” Together, the motley group headed into Rose’s little house, none of them seeing the light flickering from the crack stretching across the back of the shed.


	7. That Night

“Here you go, then,” Rose said, opening the door and leading Clara into a snug bedroom. “Should do alright.” 

“It looks perfect.” And it was - a neat room with a tidy bed and bureau. “It’s only one night, after all.”

“Of course.” Rose went to the closet, pulling out a robe. “This should fit, I think. I can find you something better for tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Clara told her, taking the robe and sitting down on the bed. “It’s not the first time I’ve had to wear the same clothes twice. I only packed for a day trip.” She laughed. “Side effect of traveling with the Doctor.” 

“Tell me about it.” She hesitated, then sat down next to Clara. “It’s mad, isn’t it? You go to all these incredible places, just the two of you, and you see things nobody else will ever see…”

“And you can’t tell anyone, because they’ll think you’re mad,” Clara finished, laughing. “Yeah, I know what you mean. It’s like I was living in a box until he showed up!”

“And now the box is bigger on the inside.” 

“Exactly!” She sighed happily, leaning towards Rose. “I mean, I think about life before him… I don’t think I could ever go back to that.”

“Yeah, well, you’ll probably have to, someday,” answered Rose, her smile fading. “I did.”

Clara glanced over at her. “I’m not going anywhere,” she said, her tone light. “He’ll be stuck with me for a long time.”

“You might not have a choice,” Rose told her seriously. “That’s how I was. God, it was perfect, you know? Being with him, seeing the stars.” She shook her head. “And then it was over. And it wasn’t his fault,” she added. “Wasn’t anybody’s fault, really. And there wasn’t much of a choice in it, either. Needed a whole universe to keep us apart, but that’s what did it.”

“I’m sorry,” Clara said softly, taking the other woman’s hand. “He loves you a lot, I can tell.”

“I like to think he does.” Rose looked down, smiling to herself, then stood up. “Anyway, it’s late. Things to do tomorrow.”

“Of course.” Clara got to her feet as well, folding the robe over one arm.

“See in the morning, then.”

“See you.” Rose headed for the door, but, impulsively, Clara reached out and touched her shoulder. “Rose-” The blonde woman turned around, her face a question. “Thank you,” Clara said simply. “For the room and everything.”

“Oh. You’re welcome.” She blushed a bit. “I’m not used to playing host.”

“And for not being jealous.”

Rose laughed. “Well, I can’t say I wasn’t a bit jealous.”

“Me either,” Clara admitted, laughing as well. “But me and the Doctor, we’re not like that. I mean-”

“I know. It’s alright.” With a small smile, one containing real warmth, Rose opened the door. “Sleep well, Clara.”

“And you.” Clara sat back down on the bed as the door closed, smoothing the robe with one hand. An entire universe to separate them… She couldn’t help but wonder what it would be that would break her and the Doctor apart. With his determination, she doubted even dying would stop him. 

Then, with a burst of determination, she shook her head. “Worry about that when it comes,” she told herself firmly, then began getting ready for bed, her mind on the day to come.

John tossed aside his magazine, rubbing his eyes. The room Rose had put him in was perfectly comfortable, but he just couldn’t concentrate or relax. His mind kept flashing back to those awful days and weeks and months and years when he had believed his best friend was dead. 

“He’s perfectly fine,” he said out loud, trying to convince himself. He reached over and picked up the blue scarf from the bedside table, running it through his hands. “Just missing. We’ll find him tomorrow.” Rose had mentioned a strange man who’d just moved in - it had to be Sherlock. “Easy.”

Even so, John was struggling to grasp everything. In all his adventures with Sherlock, he’d seen plenty of things most people would call inexplicable, but today had them all beat. Just when he’d started to think he was going mad, a box had fallen out of the sky with an alien inside who had whisked him off into some other universe. 

He chuckled a bit. And that’s what made me sure I was sane. But truly, even knowing he'd been desperate enough to accept any help, something about the Doctor rang true. Perhaps it was because he reminded him so much of Sherlock.

They think the same, he mused, flopping back on the bed and piling the scarf on his chest. Determined, brilliant. And nothing matters more to them than their friends.

He hadn't realized it, but he must have spoken aloud, because there was a knock on the door. “Come in,” he called, hurriedly sitting up and setting the scarf aside.

Slowly the door opened to reveal the Doctor. He smiled slightly. “Do you mind?”

“No, of course not.” John got to his feet, opening the door wider to let the man in. “What can I do for you?”

“I hope I didn't wake you.” 

And there, John realized, was the difference between the Doctor and Sherlock. Sherlock wouldn't have cared if he'd woken him - the thought of the inconvenience wouldn't have crossed his mind. The Doctor's consideration was almost grating in comparison.

“No, I…” He shook his head. “My mind doesn't seem to want to stop working.”

The Doctor grinned understandingly. “I wondered about that.”

John looked at him curiously. “Get this a lot, do you?”

“You wouldn’t believe how many times.” The Doctor glanced down the hall in the direction John knew Rose’s room lay, then came further into the room, shutting the door behind him. “Listen, I just wanted to make sure you’re getting on alright. All of this… it can be a bit much.”

John snorted. “Yeah, you could say that. I mean, time travel? And I’m wearing an alien’s pajamas, it’s…completely mad.”

It was true - John had definitely not planned on an overnight stay, so the Doctor had pulled some of his extra clothes out of the TARDIS’s wardrobe for him. He’d had to roll up the cuffs a few times, but they fit well enough. 

“Yeah, sorry about that,” the Doctor said apologetically. “It’s been a long time since I carried extra men’s clothing.”

“Don’t worry about it,” John said lightly. “It’s just one night. I’ve had worse.”

“I believe it.” They stood in silence for a moment, neither quite sure what to say. Finally the Doctor smiled, looking over at his new friend. “You are doing alright, though?”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” John assured him. “Part of living with Sherlock is seeing things you didn’t think were possible. You sort of get used to the unexpected.” He shrugged. “I guess we haven’t even scraped the surface.”

“I feel like that too, sometimes. Don’t worry about it.” With a nod, the Doctor went to the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. “We’ll get him back, John. I promise.”

“I know. Thank you.” John smiled until the door was closed, then sat back down on the bed, rubbing his eyes. 

In truth, he was doing better than he’d anticipated - but that still wasn’t great. Yes, he’d seen things people would call indecent, insane, impossible, but he’d always seen those things with Sherlock. He was struggling to force everything he’d seen into something he could comprehend, and he missed having Sherlock there to instantly pick out the most important, most relevant pieces. Really, he just missed Sherlock.

Stop it, John. I’m coming back. I always do.

“I know, Sherlock,” John murmured, rolling onto his side and pulling over a pillow, then the scarf, tucking it under his arm. He knew he’d happily trade in this entire adventure, pajamas and all, just to be at Baker Street with his friend. “I know.”

The Doctor was stretched out on the couch in Rose’s living room, flipping the sonic end over end. He would have been perfectly content to stay the night in the TARDIS, but Rose wouldn’t hear of it, still wary of letting him get too far away. 

At least I won’t be uncomfortable, he thought good-naturedly, bouncing up and down a bit. With a contented sigh, he pointed the screwdriver at the lamp in the corner, ready to turn it off.

“Doctor?”

Rose was standing in the doorway, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. “Can I…”

“Of course.” He sat up, sliding over so she’d have a place to sit. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Can you blame me?” She unwrapped the blanket, spreading it over both of their laps. “You’re still awake too.” 

He grinned, tucking the ends of the blanket in snugly. “Very true.” She was, he noticed, still wearing her grey Torchwood t-shirt, though she’d changed into sweatpants. “Still working there, then?”

“Yeah. Well, sort of.” She smiled at his confusion, her face soft in the lamplight. “I was, for a bit. But things were… hard, after you… well, you know.” Her tone spoke volumes, and the Doctor instinctively put an arm around her shoulder, pulling her in. “They thought I should take a break, get away from the memories, stop thinking about you.” She giggled softly. “Joke’s on them.”

“Joke’s on them,” he repeated, shaking his head. “I have a tendency to ruin jokes like that.”

“You? Never.” Rose laughed aloud, pulling her knees up and leaning into him. “They bought me this house, got me all set up. I didn’t even have to get a mortgage.” He chuckled. “Just for a few months, they said. I don’t know what they thought was going to happen.” She looked up, her expression suddenly serious. “I’m never going to forget you, Doctor.”

“I don’t think you could.” Gently, daringly, he kissed her forehead. “And you, Rose Tyler, are completely unforgettable.” 

“Good.” She grinned, settling herself in more comfortably. The Doctor looked down at her, surprised and pleased. 

“How long’re you planning on staying here?”

“Why? Do you want me to leave?” She elbowed him, teasing. 

“No, I just… You’ve got a bedroom, and you’d rather sleep on a couch?”

“It’s not the couch that’s keeping me here.” With a suddenly hesitant smile, she reached up, laying one soft hand on his cheek. “It’s strange seeing you with another face.”

He smiled, loving feeling her fingers move on his face. “I’ve had a while to get used to it.” 

“Mmhmm. And the bow tie?”

“Bow ties are cool,” he answered immediately. Rose grinned.

“Of course they are.” She plucked the sonic screwdriver from his hand and pointed it up at the light, plunging them into a darkness lit only by hints of moonlight from the curtained window. “Goodnight, Doctor.” 

“Sleep well, Rose.” The Doctor smiled down at the beautiful woman leaning on his chest, certain he’d never been so happy. Thank you, John, he thought. 

He waited until he was certain Rose was asleep, then, carefully, he shifted into a more horizontal position. Her head fell sideways, her hair splaying across his chest. 

With one hand, the Doctor stroked her hair, then bent forward and kissed her head. “I thought it was my last chance to say it, and I waited too long,” he murmured. “Rose Tyler, I love you.” 

She stirred in her sleep, and for a moment, he was certain she was awake. But she only nestled in closer, and after a few more seconds, the Doctor did too, resigning himself to sleep, and more at peace than he’d been in centuries.


	8. Unexpected Meetings

John got up early the next morning, putting on his clothes from the day before, including the now-wrinkled scarf, and heading out into the kitchen. He'd spent a restless night, with bits of dark dreams sending him flickering in and out of consciousness, and as soon as there was light enough to be considered morning, he'd abandoned the effort, deciding rather to get up and get ready to look for Sherlock.

He was surprised to find, though, that Rose and the Doctor were already up, bustling about the kitchen making breakfast. Rose was clutching a mug.

“Morning, John,” she said brightly from the stove. She was frying eggs. “Tea’s over there. Sleep well?”

“As well as can be expected, I think,” John replied, rubbing his eyes and pouring a cup. “You?”

“Just fine.” She smiled, holding up a spatula. “Clara's still asleep, but d’you fancy some breakfast? The Doctor's making pancakes.” 

John glanced over at the Time Lord, who was busily stirring a bowl full of batter. He was wearing an apron that was completely covered in flour. “I think I'll pass,” he said, holding up his mug. “This should be enough.” He wasn’t sure he trusted the Doctor's cooking skills. “I was thinking maybe I'd start looking for Sherlock.”

“So early?” Rose asked, glancing at the wall clock. But the Doctor was all for it.

“Better an early start, don't you think?” he said brightly, perhaps a touch too willing to put the mixing bowl aside. “Rose, can you give us directions to that house you mentioned?”

“Probably, yeah.” Rose grabbed a pad of paper and a pen and scribbled down a few words and a hasty map. “I've seen him a lot in this park, actually, near the house. It's a small town, you should be able to walk.” She tore off the top note and handed it to John. “Make sense?”

“Looks good,” he answered, glancing over the paper. “You, er, don't want to come?”

Rose shook her head, smiling. “No, I'll stay and wait for Clara. Finish off breakfast.” She glanced over at the Doctor, who was brushing the extra flour off his shirt. “I know he won't leave without her.” She was silent for a moment, then seemed to start back to the present. “Let me know how it goes, though, yeah?”

“Course.” He tucked the paper into a pocket, then headed for the door. “Come on, Doctor.” He snatched the Doctor's jacket off the peg and tossed it to him. “Nothing like a walk in the park to start the morning off.””This should be it,” John said, looking up from Rose's map at the green space before him. “Not much of a park.”

“Better than some, believe me,” the Doctor told him. “The Klanork people like to bask in volcano craters. All very well if you're fireproof,” he added as John stared, “and the scenery is good if you like that sort of thing, but this is much nicer, don't you think?”

“Klanork,” John repeated skeptically. “Fireproof aliens? Where are they from, Jupiter or something?”

The Doctor laughed. “Oh no. They live in Hawaii. Plenty of craters and lava and all that.” He smiled beatifically at his newfound friend. “What say you we split up? Cover more ground that way.”

“Sure, yeah. Good idea.” John wasn't at all upset to get away from the Doctor before he told him there were shapeshifting aliens in London or something. “Park first, then the house. I'll go left, you go right?”

“Whatever you say, Dr. Watson.” The Doctor grinned at him before trotting off. He was soon lost among the trees.

With a sigh, John headed in the other direction. The park, though small, was heavily wooded, offering no clear view in any direction. There was, however, a walking path, so John headed along that, keeping his eyes peeled for any hint of a long black coat.

The Doctor, meanwhile, as was his habit, ignored the beaten path, choosing instead to beat his way through the trees. 

“To find Sherlock Holmes, think like Sherlock Holmes,” he muttered, shoving aside a branch. “Deductions. Clues. Detective things - aha!” 

He sprang forward and examined the ground, where a clear indentation of a small animal's paw could be seen. “A footprint! Possibly a human footprint, even.” He pulled out his eyeglasses, slipping them onto his nose, then frowned. “Maybe a very small human… No. Bother.”

Getting back on his feet, the Doctor plowed on, forcing his way through the trees until he burst into a clearing. It had a fountain in it, and several benches - a place where several paths intersected. People of all sorts roamed the area, enjoying the summer sun. 

Undaunted, the Doctor pulled out his sonic screwdriver and pointed it at the ground as he imagined a certain detective might hold a magnifying glass. He scurried around the park, nose to the ground, scanning for anything out of the ordinary.

Thud! He ran headlong into something, falling back into the grass. That something turned out to be a man's leg, clothed in dress pants and a long black trench coat. 

“Oh! Excuse me,” the Doctor exclaimed. “I was busy making deductions.”

“Were you?” The man he'd run into looked down at him with detached curiosity. “Interesting.” He reached out a hand to help the Doctor to his feet. “What are you deducing?”

“I'm looking for a friend,” the Doctor explained to the tall stranger. “Well, a friend of a friend. Well, a friend of a recent acquaintance… It's complicated, but basically I'm looking for someone.”

“Hmm.” The man ran a hand through his tousled black curls. “I'm rather good at finding people. Who is it?”

“Sherlock?”

Both the Doctor and his mysterious companion turned to see John standing at the edge of the clearing, having just come off one of the paths. The Doctor smiled in happy relief. 

“Oh, John, there you are! Haven't found him yet, but this fellow’s going to help. Listen, I think we're on the right track, and we…” He trailed off, seeing John's expression. “And we… and… oh. That's him, isn't it.”

“Hello, John,” Sherlock said softly, half-smiling and walking over to where his friend stood. “I wondered if you'd come for me.”

“Course. I-" John cleared his throat, looking at the ground. “Of course I came, Sherlock.”

Sherlock nodded. “Going to punch me again?”

“Should I?” His friend laughed. John smiled too, then suddenly realized he was still wearing his friend's scarf. “Here,” he said hurriedly, pulling it off and handing it over. “I brought this.”

“Ah. Thank you.” Sherlock took the scarf and fluidly knotted it around his neck, straightening his collar with a sigh of contentment. “How do I look?”

“Er, good, yeah,” John assured him awkwardly. “Better.”

“Hmm. Good.” Sherlock tugged the scarf a little tighter, then nodded. “Very good.”

John shuffled his feet for a few minutes before finally giving in. “Oh, come here,” he said, stepping forward and pulling Sherlock into a hug. Sherlock stiffened for a moment, surprised, before awkwardly putting his arms around John, patting him on the back.

The Doctor smiled at the reunion, wondering what Clara would say. Carefully, he slipped away, intending to leave the pair alone and pay a visit to the TARDIS.

“How did you get here, then?” Sherlock asked, seemingly searching for something to say.

“Oh, that.” John laughed, shaking his head. “You wouldn't believe me if I told you. The Doctor can probably explain it better than I can.” He looked around for his new companion, trailing off as he realized the park was now nearly empty. “Hold on, where’s he gone?”

“Who?”

“The Doctor, the man who was just talking to you, he was just here…” John stepped away, looking around the lawn. “God. Of course. Come on, Sherlock, we’ve got to find him.”

“Must we?” Sherlock asked, sounding bored. “He seems like an idiot.”

“Oh, no, he's brilliant.” Sherlock snorted. “No, he is,” John told him firmly, “he's the one who got us here, it's his time machine-”

“Time machine? John, what-”

“Just, come on. He'll probably be back at the house.”

“What house?”

“I'll explain on the way,” John said impatiently, grabbing Sherlock's hand and pulling him along. “Let's go.”  
The Doctor was indeed back at Rose's house, or rather, out back. He'd peeked in the windows and seen Clara and Rose happily chatting over pancakes, and, with a sneaking suspicion they were talking about him, had hurried by without stopping in. Besides, he'd reasoned, he needed some time alone with his beloved box.

However, once he'd arrived, he was greeted by a thoroughly unpleasant surprise. The garden was there, yes, with flowers badly trampled, and a large square indent where the TARDIS had stood - but didn't stand any more. The yard was empty.

Empty, except for the little brown shed. This shed itself was unremarkable - what caught the Doctor's attention was the long crack stretching across the side, directly behind where the TARDIS had stood.

“Oh, no,” he murmured. “No no no no no…” He pulled out his screwdriver, hurrying forward to examine the crack. “What's happened to you?” He scanned the entire area, running the tip of the sonic along the edge of the crack. “Definitely gone through,” he muttered, “but how? Why?”

“Doctor?” John and Sherlock had arrived. “Where's the TARDIS?”

“Gone,” he answered, staggering back a bit. “Through there.”

“The crack?” Sherlock asked, staring intently at it.

“Yes, of course the crack,” the Doctor said irritably. “I'm an alien, and my time machine, which is shaped like a police box and is bigger on the inside, has disappeared through a crack in the seams of the universe, and I've got Sherlock Holmes here asking idiotic questions. Caught up now?”

Sherlock glanced over at the Doctor, then went oddly still. The Doctor, after watching him for a second, returned to the crack, probing the edges carefully. John, however, sat back on his heels, waiting for his friend to be done.

“Sherlock?” There was absolutely no response. “What're you thinking about?”

After a moment more, Sherlock snapped out of it, looking at John. “Reconfiguring,” he said, shaking his head slightly. “A lot of things in this situation couldn't be logically possible, but I've got new premises now.”

John laughed. “Good to see you out of your depth for a change.”

Sherlock's eyebrows flew up into his curls. He glared at John indignantly. “I am not-”

“Got it,” the Doctor announced loudly, stepping away from the crack. “With the right frequency, I should be able to blow this thing open so we can see where the TARDIS went.”

“TARDIS?” Sherlock asked John in an undertone.

“His time machine,” John told him. “That's what it's called, don't ask me why.”

“Ready?” the Doctor called, raising the sonic with a grin. “Stand back.” With a flick of his wrist, the sonic lit up, it's peculiar noise filling the yard. wrist, the sonic lit up, its peculiar sound filling the yard. As John and Sherlock watched, faintly astonished, the crack split open, wider and wider, revealing a scene very familiar to them.

“Hang on,” John said, stepping forward, “that’s Baker Street, that’s our flat!”

“Parallel world,” Sherlock breathed, taking it in, “alternate universe, of course!”

It certainly was, but it was not empty as they’d left it. In fact, there were two men there, one seated each in John and Sherlock’s armchairs, one blonde and one brunette. They were drinking tea, John noticed with annoyance, out of his teacups, but this wasn’t what caught his attention the most. 

“Oh my God,” he murmured. “It can’t be.”

At the sound, the blonde man set aside his tea cup and spread his arms wide, beaming. “Doctor!” he cried, seeming truly delighted. “How very good to see you!”

The Doctor reacted like he’d been slapped. “Master?” 

“Oh, it’s been such a very long time. And this must be Sherlock!” The man gave a little wave. “Thrilled to meet you. My new friend here’s been telling me all about you.”

“I shudder to think,” Sherlock murmured, his attention riveted on the Master’s companion.

“Have you met him, Doctor?” the Master asked, his eyebrows going up. “I don’t think you have. This is-”

“Moriarty,” Sherlock said coldly, cutting him off. “Jim Moriarty.”

Moriarty smiled cheekily over his tea. “H’lo, Doctor. Sherlock,” he said smoothly. “Did you miss me?”


	9. The Plot Thickens

“Moriarty?” John was reeling. “But you’re dead!”

“Really?” Moriarty pulled a surprised face. “Well. Good thing you told me.”

“Ooh, bad luck, Jim,” the Master said sympathetically. “I told you if we pulled them from the future there’s all sort of information in the offing.” He shrugged. “Pity about that.”

“Don’t tell him anything,” Sherlock murmured in John’s ear. “They say ‘Knowledge is power’ for a reason.”

“Mmm, most astute, very good.” Moriarty set his teacup aside with precision. “Pithy, even. Didn’t expect that from you, Sherlock.” Sherlock’s face tightened. “Your clever friend here doesn’t know who I am, does he?”

The Master laughed. “No fun being in the dark, is it?”

“Who are you?” the Doctor asked, smiling a little. Subtly, he held the sonic loosely at his side, scanning the crack quietly. 

“Doctor? What’s going on?”

Clara and Rose had rushed out of the house. “We heard shouting,” Rose said uncertainly, staring into the crack. “Who’s this?”

“Jim Moriarty, the world’s only consulting criminal.” He got up from Sherlock’s armchair and bowed slightly, a sneering smile on his face. “Well matched, aren’t we, Sherlock?”

Clara’s eyes widened. Sherlock? she mouthed to the Doctor. He waved a hand at her and she subsided, eyes shining at the presence of her hero. 

“I suppose you could call him my archenemy,” Sherlock said coolly. 

“Hang on, people really have those?” Rose asked. “Doctor, you don’t…” Then she looked at the Master. “Oh. I suppose he’s your archenemy too?”

“I’d be flattered,” the Master said when the Doctor didn’t answer. “Childhood friendship turned sour, you know the story. We’ve got plenty of history. Although the bow tie...” He tilted his head to one side. “That is new. Goodness.”

“What do you want?” the Doctor asked, his voice tight. “What’ve you done with my TARDIS?”

“What do I want?” The Master laughed, ignoring the second question. “Why, Doctor, I’m going to be Prime Minister, of course! Don’t you remember?”

“What?” Clara looked from the crack to her friend. “Doctor, what does he mean?”

The Doctor actually stepped back a pace. “It - years ago,” he said distractedly. “Different times, different friends, different face… But why now?”

“Wait, wait, back up.” Sherlock held up a hand, closing his eyes. “What did you say?”

John eyed him curiously. “He asked why now.”

“No no no, before that.” His eyes snapped open. “Pulled forward from the future. When are you from?”

“Ooh, very good, someone’s paying attention.” Moriarty leaned back in the chair. “Right now, for us, it is April of 2007.” 

“What?” John looked at him curiously, then at Sherlock. “But we’re in 2014… Then he hasn’t even met us yet! We haven’t even met.”

“I’ve got 2013,” Clara put in.

“2007 for me, too,” Rose said, throwing a distrustful glance at the pair in the crack. “But I've never seen them before, Doctor, honest.”

“Does it matter?” Clara asked, trying to be practical.

“It might,” the Doctor said, his expression unreadable. “I don’t know.”

“You know, I wonder sometimes,” the Master said, sinking back in his armchair. Moriarty went back to his tea, his amusement visible. “I’ve been working on this for months, and you’ve been popping in and out with your little friends and your little box, and I wonder, why didn’t you do something, hmm? I’ve been doing some reading, you know,” he added, “all these plots, all these aliens, year after year, and you’re always there. Why not me?”

The Doctor frowned. “But I did… I will…”

“I know.” The Master beamed at him. “I’ve been expecting you. And then I met Jimmy here.”

“I’m always looking for a higher class of criminal, Mr. Holmes,” Moriarty said smoothly. “Opportunity of a lifetime.”

“He helped me set this up,” the Master explained. “Got me the parts, the labor. Everything I needed to build the perfect trap for you, and the only condition was that I get him Sherlock as well.”

“Not just that,” Moriarty added, cracking his knuckles. “Sherlock's weaknesses.” His gaze lingered on John.

“And both of us get you out of the way for a while.” The Master smiled. “Free reign. While the cat's away, the mice shall play, isn't that the phrase?”

“So it's a trap,” John said, glancing from the Doctor to Sherlock.

“Of course it's a trap, John, don't be thick,” Sherlock snapped. “And I was the bait, and you lot waltzed right in, didn't you? Playing the hero.”

“Sherlock-”

“Caring is not an advantage, John,” Sherlock said coldly, turning away. “I thought you'd have learned that by now.”

The Doctor opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it, subsiding into an unhappy silence. John stared at his friend, not really sure what to say. Moriarty watched every move, nothing escaping his attention.

“Neat plan, hmm, Doctor?” the Master asked, not one to let a silence hang. “We get the space to stretch, and meanwhile we’ve got you shut up in a nice little universe of your own where you can’t get into any trouble and we can watch your every move with these.” He pointed around the edge of the crack.

“How?” the Doctor asked, frowning. “That’s a tear in the universe, not some kind of peephole. You can’t open them on command.”

“Just because you can’t?” The Master laughed. “Jim helped me with the calculations.” 

“It’s not control, more… predictions,” Moriarty put in. “Everything has a pattern, Doctor. You’ve just got to find it.”

“But you're using it,” the Doctor said, running hand through his hair, “you're, you're, harnessing it somehow, how're you doing that?”

“Oh, easily enough,” the Master said airily, propping his feet up on their end table. “We had the best controlling machine possible.”

“A machine? For cracks in the universe?” The Doctor shook his head. “Impossible. There isn't technology on Earth that could do it. Humanity just hasn't progressed far enough.”

Clara and Rose traded glances, hiding smiles. John looked as though he was trying to decide whether he should be offended. 

“Of course they haven't,” agreed the Master amiably. “Pathetic, aren't they? No, we aren't using any Earth technology.” He snorted. “As if we would. We've got something much better, from much further away. Really, I should thank you, Doctor,” he added, eyes glinting. “You dropped it right on our doorstep.”

“Doctor, what does he mean?” John asked, eyeing the Master suspiciously. Clara, though, watching the Doctor’s face fall, had a terrible feeling she knew exactly what the mysterious man meant. 

“With two of the greatest minds in the galaxy and the full power of a TARDIS behind us?” The Master laughed. “We could do anything.”

“And we have,” Moriarty added, ignoring Sherlock’s snort. “We’re on our way, anyway. Just getting started.” His smile was manic. “Exciting, isn’t it?”

“Not quite what I’d call it,” Rose muttered, brushing her blonde hair out of her face. 

“It was halfway through the calculations already,” the Master told them. “So many encounters, all across time and space…”

“What’ve you done to her?” the Doctor demanded. “If you harm her, in any way-”

“Your machine?” The Master laughed. “Your concern is touching, but I can't make any promises.”

“What’re you doing with us, then?” Sherlock asked, spitting the words out as though they pained him. “Something nefarious, I assume.” 

“Oh, don’t be obvious,” Moriarty moaned, hiding his face in his hands. “No, Sherlock, it’s much better than that, much simpler than that. We’re going to leave you there.”

Clara stared. “I’m sorry?”

Moriarty looked at her, long and lingering, his smile ice-cold. “Nice, isn’t it? Kind, humane. Yes. Go live your little lives, have fun, be happy, and we get this universe to ourselves.”

“Yeah right.” Rose stepped forward, laughing. “Except you don't know the Doctor. Because if you did-” Her gaze flicked to the Master. “If you did, you'd know you can't trap him anywhere, because he never gives up, not ever. He's not going to sit and let you hurt people, or whatever you're going to do. He's got Sherlock, too, and John, and Clara, and he's got me.” 

“Rose-” The Doctor put a hand on her shoulder.

“So don't think you're going to keep us here long.”

The two men traded glances, as if hardly able to keep from laughing. “Ooh, I like this one,” the Master murmured, looking at Rose appreciatively. “Why'd you ever get rid of her?”

“You-” The Doctor started forward, then stopped, his face going blank. Sherlock cast him a faintly disapproving glance. 

“We'll see you again, though, am I right?” Clara asked, deliberately looking away from the scene. “You said you'd be checking in.”

“Very good.” The Master glanced at her. “If that's the replacement, then I suppose I can't blame you.”

“Yes, we'll be back,” Moriarty answered her, ignoring his partner. “Time will tell. The next crack opens in, what, two months?” He glanced at the Master for confirmation, who nodded.

“Give or take a few.”

“Two months?” Clara repeated, aghast. John glanced at Sherlock, panicking slightly, and saw his friend wearing the peculiar expression he always got when buried in his mind palace. Slightly reassured, he looked around at the rest of the group. Clara was reeling, shaking her head slowly. Rose looked a tiny bit pleased, though clearly concerned for the others.

The Doctor, though, looked utterly devastated. He hid it well, but John, who had gotten pretty good at reading emotions, could see what the news had done to the Time Lord.

“He hates being tied down,” a voice murmured behind him. Rose, ever perceptive, had seen the direction of his gaze. “Hates not being able to move around.” She shook her head sadly. “Oh, this is going to kill him.” 

The edges of the crack began to shudder and flicker. The Master looked up.

“I think that's our cue.” He gave the Doctor an ironic salute. “See you next time, then. Do enjoy your stay.”

“No- Hang on, wait!”

Moriarty and the Master smiled at each other, each a predator's grin. “Months cooped up with the one you love most? Why, I'd think it'd be a dream come true.”

Then, before anyone could protest, the crack shut with a snap and a spark, leaving the yard quiet and still.


	10. Deductions

The effect on the group was palpable, each breathing a sigh of relief or settling back on their heels. They were glad to have the Master and Moriarty gone, even with the grim news they'd given them.

“Two months,” Clara repeated quietly. She shook her head, brown hair bouncing around her face. “Doctor, what are we going to do for two months?”

“And that's at the least,” John reminded her. “That's just until they get back.”

“The odds are good that we will not get out on the first try,” Sherlock said crisply. “We'll need time to gather information. I'd settle in if I were you. Maybe find another job as a governess?”

Clara‘s eyes widened. “How'd you know that?”

Sherlock scoffed. “It was obvious.”

“He does that sometimes,” John said by way of explanation. “Deduces things, based on what he sees-”

“Observes,” Sherlock corrected him. The Doctor hid a smile. “Seeing and observing are two different things. Not enough people realize that.”

“Well, go on, then,” Clara said, a hint of a challenge in her smile. “Deduce me. How much can you get?”

The Doctor and Rose traded glances, curious and excited. John watched in amusement, full used to what was coming.

“Oh, nothing much,” Sherlock said, his manner casual, before suddenly snapping into what John thought of as his detecting mode. “Only that you're a right-handed single governess who is dissatisfied with your job, which you've held for about two years, and are looking for a better position, probably as a teacher, who did not expect to spend the night at this woman's house.” He glanced over. “It's Rose, isn't it?”

“Rose Tyler, yeah.” She smiled warmly, her cheeks pink.

Clara stared for a moment, blinking in surprise, then grinned. “Alright, so how'd you do it?”

“It's all very obvious. Most of it comes down to your clothing.”

“My clothing?” Clara glanced down at her outfit, suddenly self-conscious. “What's wrong with it?”

“Clothing is perhaps the most telling insight into a person's life,” Sherlock informed her. “Yours are nice, decently expensive, but well-worn. I'm guessing two years out of style? By your age the explanation can't be that you used to have money, the odds are better that you bought something nice for a job interview and have worn it ever since. Now, what job? The knees of your stockings are worn, which could suggest a lot of things-”

“Sherlock,” John said warningly, remembering the last time Sherlock had made that particular deduction.

“-but the side of your skirt is also faded, suggesting you often sit on the floor. As most adults who dress nicely don't spend more time on the floor than they have to, I deduced that you work with children; specifically, older children, because there is no trace of baby food or saliva anywhere. Could be a teacher, then, the balance of probability suggests for it,but the cuffs of your sleeves are clean - a teacher's will always have chalk dust or ink from erasing boards. Therefore, governess. The fading on your skirt also told me you're right-handed: it's on the right side only, suggesting you lean that way specifically to keep your right hand free. The fabric is both worn and faded, eliminating the possibility of bleach or simple sun fading.”

Clara shook her head. “That's amazing. But how d'you know I'm dissatisfied with it?”

Sherlock looked at her almost pityingly. “Have you ever met a young governess who wasn't?” John laughed, fighting it down hastily at Clara's glare.

“But how did you know I'm single?”

“I didn't know until you said it,” Sherlock corrected her, “but the clues were there: no wedding ring or keepsake jewelry, the heel on your shoe is at least two centimeters, probably 2.3, measure it later if you like. Also, you're traveling with another man. No one sensible would try to keep up a relationship while spending that much time with someone else.”

John cleared his throat loudly, looking determinedly at the ground. Sherlock glanced over at him, clearly not understanding.

Clara raised an eyebrow. “How do you know I'm not with the Doctor?” she asked tartly. Sherlock's gaze went the Doctor to Rose, standing at his side. 

“You're not,” he said shortly. Clara was suddenly intensely glad he didn't say anything further.

“But what about her staying over with me?” Rose inquired. “How'd you get that?”

“Again, obvious, if you only look.” Sherlock's grin reminded John of a shark with blood in the water - intent only on the thrill of the chase. “You're not from around here, I make it my business to know who belongs and who doesn't. Could just have been away for the week, but no. The bags under your eyes point to a restless night. You haven't made any effort to cover them up, although you have traces of mascara in the corner of your eyes: clearly no stranger to makeup. So why wouldn't you hide them? You don't have your makeup with you. Why not? You spent the night somewhere else.”

Rose nodded, impressed. “Not too bad, Sher-"

“Also, your clothing,” Sherlock continued, speaking right over Rose. “It's clearly on its second day of use, supporting the idea that you didn't expect to be out. You haven't gotten new ones, so you've only been here for a short time, probably just the one night. And, perhaps the most telling of all, your jacket.”

Clara had indeed put on a light jacket Rose had offered her to ward off the early morning chill. She glanced down at it, then up at Sherlock, curious.

“It's clearly not yours, and by the fit and size, it belongs to Rose. You'd only borrow someone else's clothing if you hadn't brought any of your own, so you didn't know you were coming.” He shrugged, looking vaguely bored with the whole proceeding. “All the clues are there if you only observe them. It's simple.”

“Might even say ‘elementary’,” Rose added, her eyes sparkling. Sherlock glanced over at her, clearly missing the joke. 

“That's... very impressive. Wow.” Clara shook her head, laughing breathlessly. “I can't believe you're actually Sherlock Holmes.”

“I can,” Rose said with a smile. The Doctor bumped her slightly with his shoulder. “But anyway, he's right,” she added, grinning up at him, “about more than just Clara. You're gonna have to settle in, find jobs, all that. Got to do something for two months, right?”

“Right.” The Doctor beamed at her, though he didn't look entirely happy. “We should pay attention, though. Just in case it flares up early.”

“They did say ‘give or take’,” John put in fairly, then fell quiet when Sherlock glared at him. He knew Sherlock wasn't going to enjoy staying in so small a town - serial killers were much less common.

“I'll rig up a sensor,” the Doctor said into the sudden silence, bounding through the poor flowers and opening the shed. “Don't need the TARDIS for everything, you know. I'll just need a few things…” He examined the shed, which contained typical garden things: a bicycle, a hose, a shovel, a set of tennis rackets, and various other odds and ends. The Doctor grinned. “Perfect.”

Clara looked doubtfully at the Doctor, but decided to trust him. If there was anything he knew how to do, it was improvise.

“What're you going to do?” she asked Sherlock, not terribly anxious to lose her hero so soon.

“We'll probably head for London,” John said when Sherlock didn't answer. “Find a flat, he can get back to solving crimes.”

“No,” the Doctor said, shutting the shed doors with a dusty bang. “We need to stay close by, in the area. Just in case.”

John and Sherlock traded glances. Sensing Sherlock was about to throw a fit, John nodded. “Yeah, of course. Makes sense. I'm sure we can find plenty to do. Right, Sherlock?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue, but John glared him into silence. “If we must,” he muttered with an irritated sigh.

“Right, then.” Rose smiled, the only one of them truly pleased with the events. “I can put you up until you find places of your own, or Sherlock can, if he's got a house.” She grinned up at the Doctor, leaning into him. “And I guess we'll see what the next months bring.”


	11. Life As We Know It

The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson  
Life As We Know It  
Date: It's complicated

I know I haven't posted in ages, but life's been...crazy. It's been a couple of months since we arrived in this universe, and things have pretty much settled down - at least, as much as they can with Sherlock and the Doctor around. 

Also, this isn't a case detailing, just so you know. Just an update, to show you we're all still here. I've no idea who's going to read this, since hardly anyone here knows us, much less about this blog, but even so. Sherlock's got to get cases somehow. Does internet go between universes? I'll have to ask the Doctor.

We're still waiting for Moriarty and the Master to come back, and every day it feels less likely that we'll ever see them again. The Doctor built some mad contraption out of a bike and a garden hose and God knows what else. It's meant to be keeping track of the crack's activity, but it hasn't shown much. I'm not personally convinced the thing works, but he's pretty confident.

In the meantime, we've all got jobs, of course. Clara's working as a teacher's aid, with hope for a promotion soon. Rose got the Doctor a job in a shop for now, and it's a miracle he's been able to keep it. He's always dashing off on this or that, sure he's found some alien. He's already accused our next-door neighbor of being a Zygon, whatever that is. 

As for Sherlock and I, life is pretty much back to normal. I've joined up with the local hospital, just part-time for now. Sherlock’s not too happy about being stuck here. He's just itching for a good case, but they’re a lot harder to find in small towns like this. He badly wants to return to London, despite the Doctor's warning. He told me yesterday that this universe's version of our flat on Baker Street is available to rent, and I think he's hoping I'll take the hint. 

I'm missing Mary, of course, and I can't help wondering how she's doing. Is time still passing in that universe? If she has our baby while I'm gone I will never forgive myself. Or whoever did this to us. We're missing Mrs. Hudson too, and Molly, and even Lestrade (Sherlock is too, even if he won't admit it.)

Honestly, even though we've been exposed to aliens and time travel and alternate dimensions and whatever, life here is really normal. It's nice. (Once we got all settled in, of course.) I can't quite put my finger on what it is about this place, but it's very peaceful and relaxing, even with all the mad things Sherlock gets up to. 

We do still have cases, of course. Probably the most notable was when the entire traveling cast of The Nutcracker supposedly shot each other in their trailers (it was actually a disgruntled ex-performer - see my post on The Norwood Dancers for more), but there's been plenty others, too. We've been traveling into London for some of them, but it's amazing how many mad things happen in towns like this. 

I guess it's true what they say about putting down roots, because even knowing this is all only temporarily, we're really getting settled in. Clients have started coming to us, instead of Sherlock dogging around the station driving the inspectors up a wall. Clara's joined a school board committee. Rose and the Doctor got a cat. Just little things, but it almost feels like we're setting in to stay. 

And somehow, I'm okay with that. 

 

Comments:

Sherlock Holmes: John, if you wanted to go back to London, you should have just asked.

John Watson: Sherlock, we really shouldn't. And you're the one who wants to!

impossiblegirl: Hang on, it's evening. Aren't you two together?

John Watson: We're both home, if that's what you mean. 

impossiblegirl: Are you talking through comments instead of actual speech?

Sherlock Holmes: Is that a problem?

impossiblegirl: LOL You two are so cute.

TheDoctor11: The internet actually can go from one universe to the next, and it happens a lot. Not regularly, just little things slipping through. They just get buried in all the other things on the internet, so no one really notices.

TheDoctor11: As for how time passes, usually in parallel universes time runs parallel, hence the name. So yes, time is probably still going. But if it makes you feel better, I can probably drop you off a few minutes after you left. No harm done.

John Watson: That's really interesting, actually. Thanks.

TheDoctor11: Not a problem!

badwolfrose: It's a ginger tabby cat, if anyone's curious. He's called Geronimo.

badwolfrose: The Doctor named him.

impossiblegirl: Somehow I'm not surprised

TheDoctor11: It's a brilliant name for a cat, Clara! 

TheDoctor11: I still don't understand why we can't just use our regular names.

impossiblegirl: Internet safety, Doctor! We don't want the whole world knowing who we are or how we got here.

badwolfrose: Torchwood is really particular about things like that sometimes.

badwolfrose: Besides, somebody already has the name Doctor, it's pretty common. And you can't double up.

TheDoctor11: That's rubbish.

Sherlock Holmes: It is, isn't it?

John Watson: Sherlock. Not helping. 

Sherlock Holmes: But really, John. Think how much easier detective work would be if you could impersonate people like that.

impossiblegirl: But then no one would be able to trust anyone. Not even their friends.

Sherlock Holmes: Exactly.

impossiblegirl: You're horrible.

John Watson: Careful, he'll take that as a compliment.

Anonymous: haha this blog is so fake yeah right get a life

Sherlock Holmes: People are idiots.

badwolfrose: I won't disagree with that one.

TheDoctor11: In fairness, this is pretty hard for your little human minds to believe. 

impossiblegirl: Oi! Excuse me!

John Watson: No one's forcing anyone to believe anything. Or post stupid comments. 

TheDoctor11: Just so long as you keep believing it, John. That's all that's important.


	12. A Summer's Day

The Doctor sat in the small bench in the garden he still thought of as Rose's, despite having lived there for several months. It was a beautiful summer day, sunny and warm, and the air was heady with the scent of flowers in bloom. And, surprisingly enough, the Doctor was very content to sit on that bench and watch the world go by. 

He smiled into the sunlight, idly flipping the sonic screwdriver in the air. Suddenly he felt pressure around his ankles. 

“H’lo, Geronimo,” he said fondly, reaching down to scratch the cat's head. “Does Rose know you're out?”

The big tabby only purred in response, hopping up on the bench and butting his head into the Doctor's shoulder.

“Yeah, I figured. You bad boy.” 

Geronimo looked thoroughly unashamed, rolling on his back and presenting his stomach for petting. The Doctor obliged, catching the sonic with one hand and rubbing the cat's belly with the other. 

“What’d’you think about all this, Geronimo?” he asked softly, glancing around the garden. “Pretty nice, isn't it?”

The cat meowed, demanding more attention. In return the Doctor held out the screwdriver for the cat to inspect. 

“How about that?”

Geronimo sniffed the end lightly, then rubbed his cheek along the end. He sneezed violently, then proceeded to wash a paw and ignore the Doctor completely. The Time Lord laughed.

“You have no respect,” he told the cat, mock-severe. “None.”

“And you think he should?”

Rose had come out of those house behind him. Laughing, she shifted the cat out of the way, ignoring his mewled protests, and sat down next to the Doctor. “He is a cat, after all.”

The Doctor made a face at her, but moved over to give her more room. 

“Having fun out here?” she asked. He nodded contentedly.

“Yes. It's a beautiful day. You don't really get to enjoy things like this when you're traveling the universe."  
“What, too busy saving planets to ever watch a sunset?"

"Something like that." Rose laughed. "I didn’t expect to survive, really,” he admitted. “Being cooped up in one dimension, on one planet, in one town…” He shook his head. “Didn’t think I could do it. But… it’s nice.”

He looked down at the small, blonde human next to him. Still, even after the days and weeks and months he'd been trapped in this world, he still could hardly believe that Rose, his Rose, was here with him. With him.

“Doctor?”

Too late he realized she'd been asking him a question. “Sorry, what did you say?”

Rose smiled. “I asked what you were thinking about,” she said, gently teasing. “You looked a million miles away.” 

He tried to keep from blushing, thinking that the object of his thoughts was, in fact, half a bench away. “Oh, just things. You know.” 

“Things,” she repeated, settling back against the bench and looking off into the garden. “Things like the Master?”

“Er, yeah.” He seized on the idea gratefully. “Yeah, definitely that.” 

Rose glanced over at him cautiously. “Have you… Has anything happened with it? The crack?”

“No.” The Doctor sighed, rubbing Geronimo's head. “Nothing worth anything, anyway. Just flares, that's all. Not enough for the crack to properly open.” He got to his feet, ignoring the cat's displeasure at being dislodged, and headed over to the shed. Rose followed.

“I will never understand that thing,” she confessed, peering in at the Doctor's contraption. It looked like a large, ungainly windmill, with the blades made from shovels, hoes, and a single hockey stick. Various odds and ends stuck out all over, with a garden hose protruding from the top.

“Honestly, it's fairly simple,” the Doctor told her with a grin. “See, this twirly bit here is the dimensional stabilizer, which balances out the two sides of the rift, accounting for interdimensional instability, of course, anyone knows that. And then this here-”

“Okay, Doctor,” Rose said, grinning and holding up her hands, “I'll trust you. So long as it works.” Then she glanced up at him. “It does work, doesn't it?”

“Course it does.” Then, as she raised an eyebrow, the Doctor hurried to modify his statement. “Well, mostly. Enough, at least.”

Rose laughed. “Whatever you say.”

“It might be missing little things,” he allowed, “tiny flares, but something as big as the crack opening?” He shook his head. “I absolutely would have caught it.” He shut the shed door with a dusty thud.

“But what if you weren't around?” Rose inquired, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Nobody's back here all the time.” She grinned. “Unless you've hired Geronimo.”

The Doctor's eyebrows flew up into his hair, and he pointed excitedly at Rose. “You know, that's not a bad idea.” He bounded back over to the bench. Rose followed helplessly, laughing.

“No, Doctor - I didn't mean - you're joking.”

He stopped abruptly and turned around, catching her before she crashed into him. “Yep,” he said, wrapping his arms around her waist and beaming down at her. “Totally joking. Cats make terrible employees.”

Rose glanced up at him, uncertainty in her eyes. Then a slow smile spread across her face. “Yeah, I bet they do. Like some people I know.” 

“Oi!” the Doctor protested, indignant. “I am a brilliant employee! I was born to sell toys. Well, maybe not,” he added, considering, “but children love me!”

“Kids do, yeah. Not the managers so much.” She laughed, then stepped away from his embrace, looking at him closely. Her expression grew more serious. “You're so...different,” she said softly. “I mean, I dunno what I was expecting exactly-”

“New face, new me.” He was careful to keep his voice light.

“Right, yeah. But…” She hesitated, then shook her head. “I spent months imagining seeing you again, wondering what you were doing. I never let go of you,” she told him earnestly. The Doctor nodded.

“I know, Rose.” He closed his eyes briefly, as if remembering. “I never let go of you either.”

“I knew I'd see you again somehow.” She shrugged, not quite meeting his eyes. “But I didn't imagine it'd be like that. That you-” She stopped, but the unspoken ending hung in the air. That you'd be like this.

“Me either,” he said honestly, thinking back to the last time he'd stood on that beach, watching his love kissing his duplicate and knowing that for her, that was still to come.

A soft silence fell, broken only by bird songs and the noise of passing cars. Finally, the Doctor could take it no more.

“I linked it to the sonic,” he said, changing the subject back to her earlier question. “I don't actually have to be here for it to register. It buzzes a bit, and I can read the frequency.”

“Okay.” She nodded, a careful grin making its way into her face. “Good trick. So you're sure.”

“I'm sure.”

“Then… Are you sure they are actually going to come back?”

“Yes,” he said tightly, not looking at her. “Of course they will.” His smile lacked most of its usual warmth. “They’re just a bit late, that’s all. They did say it’d be unpredictable. I’m not surprised the calculations aren’t right.” He laughed, still not the light-hearted Doctor Rose knew. “Maybe they just got lucky and faked it all to impress us.”

“Do you really believe that?” 

The Time Lord didn’t answer. Rose sighed, taking his hand. 

“Look, Doctor, I just… I just don’t want you to keep hoping if nothing’s ever gonna come of it. I know how that feels, and it’s not something you want. Believe me.”

The Doctor looked at his Rose, overflowing with love and concern for him. With a small smile, he took her hand, entwining his fingers in hers. “Yeah, of course. I’ll, uh, I’ll keep it in mind.” Lightly, he added, “They have got my TARDIS, after all.” 

“How could I forget? That’s the thing you’re really after, isn’t it?” she asked, grinning. “Not getting out of here?”

Ducking his head, the Doctor grinned too, marveling at how easily she could lift him out of any sadness. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Oh, I’m not,” Rose said loftily, then spoiled the effect by poking him in the ribs. “I’m just being right. Aren’t I?”

He had to admit she was. Laughing, Rose turned towards the house. “I’ve got a few things to do before lunch. Can you bring the cat in?”

“I can try.”

“I have faith.” She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, then headed inside.

The Doctor smiled after her for a moment, then shook his head briefly and got down to work.

“Geronimo,” he called, beginning to pace the border of the garden. “Come out, kitty. Where'd you go?”

Stubbornly, and perhaps predictably, the cat refused to show himself, preferring to stay tucked away.

With a sniff, the Doctor said, “Fine. Have it your way.” He pulled out his sonic screwdriver and held it out, scanning until he caught the cat's trace. The screwdriver buzzed slightly, and he grinned. “Got you now.”

He followed the trace, guided by the vibrations of the sonic, which grew more and more intense as he approached the hedges ringing the garden. At last, he felt certain he'd found the cat.

Bending over, he reached deep into the bush, feeling around for something furry. “Come on,” he muttered, “the sonic says you're in there-”

“Mrow?”

The cry of a curious cat reached his ears, coming, not from the bush as he'd expected, but from behind him. He sat back on his heels, brushing the twigs off his jacket, and stared at the cat, then at the sonic, puzzled.

“Now that's not supposed to happen.” He pointed the sonic at the cat, and scratched his head as the vibrations faded. Then he understood.

“Rose!” he called, scrabbling to his feet, tripping over Geronimo, and nearly falling to the dirt in his excitement. “Rose, it's opening, it's here!”

“What?” Rose came flying out of the house, staring at the shed wall. “The crack? But there's nothing there.”

“No, I know, it's moved…” He spun in a full circle, screwdriver held out in front of him, searching for the trail he'd lost. “I've got to find it. Call Sherlock, would you?”

“Yeah, of course.” Rose started for the house, then turned back. “Should I tell him to come here?”

The Doctor hesitated for a second, then shook his head. “That'll take to long. Just tell him to turn on his T.V.”

“His… Doctor, what are you talking about?”

But the Doctor had already dashed out of the garden, following the lead of the sonic screwdriver to what could be their ticket home.


	13. The Crack Opens

“Turn on the T.V.? Why?” John scratched his head at the unusual request.

“I don't know,” Rose's voice said through the phone. “He sort of ran off. Something to do with the crack, though.”

“Hmm. Okay. I'll ask Sherlock,” he decided. “Thanks for calling, Rose.”

“Of course. See you soon, I bet.” There was a click as she ended the call.

Shaking his head, John went into the living room of their flat. Sherlock was curled up in an armchair, reading the paper.

“Rose called,” he said. Sherlock didn't look up.

“I know. Pass me the remote. I can hear you, you know,” he added when John looked surprised. “Couldn't hear Rose talking, but your end of the conversation was enough to make inferences.”

“How? I was a room and a hallway away!”

Sherlock sighed, setting down the paper. “I take precautions, John,” he said impatiently. “As soon as we moved in here I tested the acoustics of the entire flat and positioned my chair in the best possible spot. Science, John, you should try it some time. Now pass me the remote.”

John stood there for a moment, processing that. “So, hang on, you can hear everything in the house? Everything?”

“The remote, John.” He went back to the paper.

“Well, that explains more than it doesn't,” John muttered, grabbing the remote off the counter and handing it to his friend. “Here. What're you reading that's so bloody important, anyway?”

“Advice columns,” Sherlock answered briskly, tossing the paper to the floor and snatching the remote. “Always instructive.” He turned on the television and started flipping through channels, clearly looking for something.

John watched him for a second, puzzled. “Do you know what he means, then?” he asked. “The Doctor?”

“Of course.” Sherlock glanced up at his flatmate. “Precautions, John. We've been preparing for months.” He went back to flipping channels, finally landing on one that had no picture at all, merely static.

“Course you have,” John muttered. “Of course you have. Didn't bother to tell me about it?”

“Should I have?” His face was all puzzled innocence. 

“Yeah, it might've been nice!” Closing his eyes for a moment, John took a deep breath. “Whatever you think, Sherlock.”

“Good. Then I want you to go get Clara.”

“What?”

“Pick her up, bring her back to Rose's house. I'll meet you there, don't worry.” He smiled winningly up at John.

“You don't want me to stay and see whatever the Doctor's doing? On second thought, don't answer that,” he said as Sherlock opened his mouth. “I'm going.”

He was grabbing for his keys and heading for the door when Sherlock stopped him. “John.” John turned back, eyebrows raised. “Thank you,” Sherlock said simply.

“Yeah. Course.” Slightly mollified, John left the flat. As soon as he was out of sight, Sherlock's attention was immediately drawn back to the screen in front of him, still flickering and buzzing with static. “Okay, Doctor,” he muttered, steepling his fingers and leaning forward. “What have you got?”

Mere moments later, the T.V. screen came to life, displaying a bouncing but surprisingly clear view of a street sidewalk. Almost immediately, the Doctor’s face came into view, squinting out through the screen. “Sherlock, can you hear me?”

“Absolutely, Doctor,” Sherlock murmured, knowing the Time Lord couldn’t hear him. “The game is on.”  
The Doctor knew he must look absurd: a fully grown man in a bow tie sprinting through the streets, following a small device, but with the vibrations from the sonic screwdriver getting stronger with every step, he didn’t much care. As he sprinted through the city, dodging pedestrians, he kept up a steady stream of apologies to anyone he knocked out of the way.

At last he saw the tell-tale light spilling out from behind a building. It was difficult to see in the daytime sun, and a person would only notice it if they were looking for it. Luckily, the Doctor was looking for it. 

As he rounded the last corner, he began to press buttons on the sonic, changing the settings until he found the one he wanted. He slumped against the wall of the building, which looked to be some sort of warehouse, making sure he was a decent distance still from the flickering crack. 

“Sherlock,” he said, pointing the sonic screwdriver at his face, “can you hear me?”

There was no response from the screwdriver, but then, he hadn’t expected one.

“I hope so,” the Doctor muttered. “Listen. I’ve found the crack. Dunno exactly where it’s come out, I haven’t been here before, but I shouldn’t think it’ll matter. Just remember, no one’ll know you’re there, just like we planned. The picture’s coming through the sonic, like I said, but it can’t send audio back. I’ll stay casual, and hopefully you can hear everything.” He grinned. “The element of surprise, as you said.” 

Sherlock, watching back in his flat, nodded brusquely. “Always useful.”

“Anyway,” said the Doctor’s voice, as the picture on Sherlock’s screen swung away from his face to show the long white crack, “I’m going to try to open it now. Really no idea what’ll be on the other side, but I guess we’ll see.”

The picture was suddenly tinted green, and Sherlock heard the curious noise he’d learned to associate with the sonic screwdriver. Then he was forced to shield his eyes as the crack flared an intense white and blew open.

Once his vision recovered, Sherlock peered at the screen, grimacing at the awkward angle, and saw, of all things, the back of a large office chair. But it was the location of this chair that interested him more.

“Hang on,” the Doctor said. Sherlock winced as the Time Lord scratched his head with the end of the sonic. “I've been here before, I've seen this before! Somewhere, it was, it was…” He smacked his forehead, mercifully not with the hand holding the sonic. “Ugh! Nasty, dusty Time Lord memory-”

“Speak for yourself, Doctor.”

Slowly the high-backed chair swung around, revealing the Master, who looked absurdly pleased with himself. “My memory's perfectly fine, thank you,” he said, raising an eyebrow at the Doctor.

“Master,” the Doctor said, inclining his head slightly. 

“Of course,” Sherlock murmured, leaning forward with increased interest. “It's the only plausible explanation. So that means…”

“Recognize this room, do you?” the Master asked, spreading his arms wide and grinning as he spun the chair in a full circle. “Parliament meeting room. Very fancy.”

“How'd you get in there?” the Doctor demanded. “It's too early for-” He stopped, as if he'd said more than he wanted to. The Master seemed not to notice, though Sherlock was convinced he had.

“Ah, just part of my campaign,” said the Master airily. “I've gotten such a lovely tour.” He grinned. “I hope you'll be voting Saxon, Doctor. Or are Time Lords not allowed to vote?” He thought for a minute, then shrugged. “Ah, well. Certainly hasn't stopped me! I couldn't have done it without my brilliant campaign manager, of course,” he added with a wink.

“Moriarty,” Sherlock breathed. The Doctor echoed him a moment later.

“Who else?” Moriarty stepped into the frame, his smile sinisterly innocent.

“Campaign manager?” the Doctor asked, raising an eyebrow. “I wouldn't have thought you'd settle for that. Not if I know your type.” He glanced at the Master.

“Settle for, nothing,” Sherlock muttered, running a hand through his hair. “He loves it.”

Moriarty chuckled. “Ah, Doctor. Centuries of life and still you stereotype?” He shook his head, looking terribly disappointed. “Some of us recognize the value of working behind the scenes. The power behind the throne, if you like.” With a mischievous smile, he added, “I expect Sherlock's family would know a thing or two about that.”

“Oh, honestly,” said Sherlock, shaking his head in annoyance. “I thought we were above such cheap digs.”

“In any case,” the Master continued, leaning casually on the glossy wooden table, “Doctor, and Sherlock, if you're listening-”

“Of course he is,” Moriarty cut in. “As if he'd miss a treat like this, oh no, not Sherlock.”

The Master glanced over at his partner, faintly annoyed, but continued. “Doctor and Sherlock, then. I believe we have unfinished business.”


	14. They Don't Believe In You

“Business, is that what you're calling it?” the Doctor asked, raising an eyebrow. “I was thinking more imprisonment and manipulation.”

Sherlock snorted. “I’d have added isolation, too,” he told the screen. 

“Now really, Doctor,” the Master said, smiling almost paternally at him. “There’s no need for such harsh language. In any case,” he added, before the Doctor could respond, “I’m afraid we’ve been busy.”

“Wish I was,” the Doctor muttered. “Busy how?”

“Oh, this and that,” he answered airily, clearly being deliberately vague. “You know me, Doctor.” He grinned. “Nothing you’d approve of, I can promise you that.”

“Ah, now, we're not being entirely fair,” Moriarty admonished him, smiling from the background. “I'm sure both of these gentlemen can appreciate a well-planned… campaign.” 

“Depends on the campaign,” the Doctor responded warily. “Go on, then.” He rubbed his hands together in anticipation. Sherlock closed his eyes, sighing as the feed from the sonic crackled and shook.

“Doctor, are you saying you’ve forgotten?” The Master shook his head, looking terribly sorrowful. “Don’t tell me you never turn up to see how it goes. Maybe you can give me a hint on the ending?”

“Not a chance.” Rolling his eyes slightly, the Doctor asked, “Are you referring to your hypnosis control scheme? The drumbeat rhythm?”

The Master twitched slightly, though his expression didn’t change. Sherlock smiled, knowing immediately that this drumbeat, whatever it was, was a definite pressure point.

“Yes, exactly. I suppose that means you figured it out somehow?”

The Doctor tapped the side of his nose with the end of the screwdriver, much to Sherlock's chagrin. Just his luck to get stuck with someone who talks with his hands. “Ah, now,” the Time Lord said with a somewhat forced grin, “that'd be telling.” 

“It doesn't much matter anyway,” Moriarty put in. “You don't have to worry about that, we've taken care of it all.” His smile reminded Sherlock vaguely of a shark. “What you need to worry about…” His gaze traveled across the Doctor's face, slowly resting on the end of the sonic screwdriver and this staring right at Sherlock through the screen. “...is yourself.”

Sherlock stiffened, then shrugged, knowing the game was up and Moriarty, at least, knew he was listening in, and how.

“Exactly,” the Master continued, almost giggling in delight. “See, Doctor, I don't know if you remember, but when Jimmy here signed on with me, he really only wanted one thing. Information.”

“Specifically, information on Sherlock Holmes.” There was no hint of a question in the Doctor's tone.

“Who else?” Moriarty started to pace a slow circle around the room. “You see, Sherlock, I've been watching you for a long time. Longer than you think, I suspect. Building up a network, getting ready to meet you… you know all of that, don't you?” 

“Most of it,” Sherlock said. Even though he knew Moriarty couldn’t hear him, the consulting criminal had paused in his speech, clearly anticipating a response.

“But this is a perfect opportunity to… study you,” he leered. “Not an ideal setting, I'll give you that, but enough to learn all we need. Your habits. Your fears.” He gaze lingered on the sonic, eyes boring into Sherlock's. “Your pressure points.”

“I'm certain you're aware how useful that information can be, Doctor,” the Master put in gleefully, delighting in his enemy's discomfort. “So good for manipulation.”

“You admit it, then,” the Doctor said tightly. “That's the goal here.”

“Well, of course!” the Master exclaimed, clapping his hands together. “What else?”

“Then you should know,” he answered, his voice measured and dangerous, “that I am not an easy person to manipulate, and people who try usually wish they hadn't.”

“Oh, Doctor, we're only just getting started,” promised the Master. “See, we've been practicing with those calculations of ours. Updating them. Refining them. Your TARDIS has been very helpful,” he added, his smile taking on a malicious edge.

“Incredible machine,” Moriarty admitted, shaking his head. “I have clients that would pay millions for just a glimpse of it. They’d destroy each other to touch it.” He smiled distantly. “Imagine the price it would fetch on the black market. Maybe once this is over I’ll set up an auction-”

“Don’t you dare,” the Doctor spat. 

Sherlock rubbed his eyes as the picture shook - the Doctor’s hands were trembling. “So much for not revealing pressure points,” he muttered, irritated. Not for the first time he wished he could have been on-scene - but in a situation with such high and mysterious stakes, every second, every word was crucial, and he knew how much he could miss in the time it took to find his ally. It was for the best, but it didn’t stop him from shifting irritably in an armchair that wasn’t his, itching to get out.

“It put up a fight, that box of yours,” the Master said airily, though Sherlock could see he was watching the Doctor with an eagle eye. “But we broke its spirit in the end.” He laughed at the Doctor’s expression. “Oh, look at you, Doctor. So angry. So wounded. And yet so helpless. Just the way we want you.” Beaming at his adversary, he added, “It’s beautiful. Am I right, Jimbo?” 

Moriarty’s answering smile seemed to Sherlock a bit forced. “And with its help,” he continued, “we’ve gotten control of the cracks perfectly. Down to the exact minute. We can even open them whenever and wherever we want.” He grinned cheekily. “What a way to raise some hell.”

“Isn't it amazing, Doctor,” the Master put in, “how there is no situation the mind can't explain away somehow? No matter how mad, no matter how impossible, there's always a reason, always a story.”

“Of course,” the Doctor answered warily. “Every situation has a series of events leading up to it, it's only logical.”

“But what if the events themselves are completely beyond logic? Maybe so far as unbelievable?” The Master smiled. “As long as you believe it, then I suppose it's fine. Unless, of course, a simpler, more believable explanation comes along…”

“What are you trying to say?” the Doctor asked suspiciously.

“Look at where you are, Doctor,” the Master said smoothly. “Jumping through a crack in time and space. By all accounts, the fact that you're alive is a miracle. And that you managed to find Sherlock?” He shook his head pityingly. “That would be enough to make anyone doubt.”

“But it's true!” said the Doctor hotly. “My friends trust me, and-”

“Ah, yes. Your friends,” Moriarty sneered. “Such a nice little group. I'm amazed Sherlock hasn't killed any of you yet, I really am.” 

“Speaking of, where are your friends?” the Master asked, peering around. “Clara, or John, or… What was the other one? Lily?”

“Rose,” the Doctor corrected him tightly.

“Rose, of course. Don't you usually have at least one tagging along? Or have they deserted you already?”

The Doctor remained silent, much to the pair's amusement. You've said plenty more than you meant to already, he told himself firmly. Don't give anything away.

“Not with you, and I bet not with Sherlock either. You're not telling me you've left them alone?” Moriarty shook his head. “I'm almost disappointed. You know the trouble little people like that get into.”

The Doctor's grip on the sonic tightened, causing the feed to crackle on Sherlock's screen. He hated the wondering, the inactivity. “Come on, Sherlock,” he murmured. “This one's on you.”

With a flutter of nervous anticipation, Sherlock grabbed for his mobile, eyes never once leaving the scene before him. He dialed John's number with practiced fingers, then waited impatiently as it rang once, twice, three times.

“Hello, this is John Watson. I can't make it to the phone just now, so-”

Sherlock threw the phone into the opposite armchair, silencing the recorded message. “Where are you, John?” he muttered, rubbing his temples.

“What have you done to my friends?” the Doctor demanded, knowing as he said it how empty the words were. 

Moriarty chuckled. “Nothing so sinister as you're thinking, I'm sure,” he reassured them. “Just… whispers. Ideas. A suggestion slipped in at a time of doubt, a worry exposed and fed, discontent and distrust pulled to the front of the mind until it can't be ignored any longer.”

“You've always said you believe in your friends above all else, Doctor,” the Master said. “What happens if they don't believe in you?”


	15. Best of Luck

The Doctor paled. “What are you saying?” His voice was carefully controlled.

“I’m saying you’re being boring,” Moriarty said, drawing the last word out into a moan. “Sherlock knows how I hate to be bored.” 

“We need information, and you’re not supplying it,” the Master added. “So we’ve got to change up the conditions.”

“Change the conditions, how?”

“Simple.” The Master beamed down at his adversary. “We’re giving you the TARDIS.” 

Sherlock blinked in surprise. That was one development he hadn’t expected. Clearly the Doctor hadn’t either.

“You’re what?” he exclaimed, eyebrows disappearing into his hair. “I thought you were using her-”

“Oh, we are,” the Master assured him, “but we’ve nearly finished. Besides, we’re not going to let you have it right away. It wouldn’t be fair.”

“Fair, what’d’you mean, fair, how is that not fair?” the Doctor demanded. “I think that’d make things a lot more fair, not the other way ‘round.”

“But we’ve got to warn you,” said Moriarty, eyes wide and innocent. “Just playing the game, after all, we’re good sports.” He glanced down at the sonic and dropped Sherlock a subtle wink through the screen. The detective sat up, attention on high alert. This, he sensed, was the crux of the matter. “See, we’re changing the rules a bit,” Moriarty added, still staring out of the television. “Or rather, changing the players.”

“See, you can have the TARDIS, you’ll be free to leave at any time, go anywhere you please,” the Master told him, smirking. “But we’re going to use those cracks you’re so fond of to plant some thoughts in your friends’ precious heads. Thoughts about you and Sherlock, and this whole world, and the world you left. Wondering if it’s real. Wondering if you’re real. Wondering just how much you say can be trusted at all.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. Though on the surface a rather absurd threat, he didn’t question their ability to carry it out for a second. If there’s anything Moriarty knows how to do, it’s spread doubt. 

“You know, I’m sure, that once an idea’s made a home in someone’s head, it never leaves,” Moriarty said calmly, leaning on the thick wooden table. “It’s always there, in the back of your mind, coloring everything you hear. It doesn’t ever leave you alone, and eventually you start to believe it.”

“Except we’ll be speeding up the process a bit,” added the Master. “Auditory hypnosis and all that, it’s very useful.” He grinned. “Come for the TARDIS here this time tomorrow, and you’ll be free to go - if you can convince your friends to come with you.”

The Doctor lifted his chin. “Then you’ll see us tomorrow. All of us, and then we’re going to come and stop you.”

“I look forward to it.” The Master reached out of their view and tapped a few buttons. “My campaign’s going brilliantly, by the way. Having you out of the way is doing wonders for my scope. I’m sure Jimmy can say the same. Every second counts.” He smirked. “We’ll be watching. Teach us something, won’t you?”

“Until tomorrow, Doctor. Sherlock.” Moriarty winked. “Best of luck.” Then, with a flash of white light, the two men were gone.   
xxxxxxxxx  
“So if you think about it,” Clara told her classroom of bored students, “the monster in Frankenstein really isn't who you expect at all. So!” She surveyed the room. “Anyone have a moral of the story?”

“Be nice to ugly monsters or they'll kill your family,” one boy offered, much to the class's amusement.

“Very funny, but I've got something else in mind. Anyone?”

A girl in front raised her hand. “Don't assume things based on what you see?”

“Better,” Clara said approvingly. “But what if we-”

“Miss Oswald?” The secretary stuck his head in the door. “There's a John Watson here for you? Says it's urgent. Something about a doctor?”

Clara's eyebrows went up. “Ah. Okay. Take the class, can you? Family emergency.” Flashing the bemused secretary a winning smile, she grabbed her jacket and started for the door. “Essays are still due tomorrow!” Clara grinned at the chorus of groans that followed her as she hurried out of the room. She pulled out her mobile as she went, sending a quick text to John. 

Be there in 2 -Clara  
xxxxxxxx  
John stood in the secretary's empty office, drumming his fingers idly on the wooden bench. His phone chimed, and he read Clara's message quickly. 

“Good,” he muttered, stretching. Even though he had very little idea of what was going on or why he was fetching Clara in the first place, he couldn't help feeling the beginnings of excited adrenaline coursing through his system. He had to admit, it wasn't any fun being left in the sidelines, but he'd seen time and again that Sherlock never did a thing without a good reason, and John would trust him. 

Finally, Clara pushed open the doors. “Hey!” She said, smiling in greeting. “What's going on?”

“Wish I knew,” he said ruefully. “You just, er, skipping class?”

Clara shrugged mischievously. “Teacher aide. The hours are flexible, and I'll flex them for all they're worth.” She slipped on her jacket. “Right then. Where're we going?”

“Rose's place, I guess. Sherlock said he'd meet us there.”

“And the Doctor?”

John could only shake his head. “No idea.”

“Figures.” She grinned, clearly excited for whatever might come. “Better get on, then.” Pulling her keys out of her pocket, she held the door open for him.

“Er, I've got my car…” He held up his own key ring, eyeing hers curiously. “I didn't think you had a car.”

She beamed at him. “I don't,” she said, then laughed at his expression. “Come on, Dr. Watson. Live a little.” With a wink, she added, “I've even got an extra helmet.”

John sighed, resigned. “Suit yourself. But I’ve got to get my gun out of the trunk first.”

“I’m sorry?” Clara raised an eyebrow. “You brought a gun to a school?”

“Side effect of living with Sherlock.” He shrugged. “Old habits die hard. Besides, the way things have been going with these cracks? Better be prepared.”

Minutes later they were cruising down the street on the back of Clara's motorbike, John, gun tucked in his waistband, hanging on desperately as she whooped in delight. “Best way to travel,” she called back to him. “Except by TARDIS, of course.”

“If you say so,” he muttered, eyes watering in the wind.

“What?”

“Nothing!”

“Sure.” She laughed as the wind whipped her hair. 

Suddenly, John felt a buzzing. With difficulty, he forced a hand into his pocket and pulled out his mobile. 

“Sherlock's calling,” he yelled. “Don't suppose you'd slow down to let me answer it?”

“Hadn't we just better get there?” she retorted. John, declining the call with a worried glance, could have sworn she'd actually sped up. 

Luckily for him, they weren’t far from Rose’s neat little house, and were there in only a few minutes. Clara turned into the driveway, jumping off almost immediately. John was a little more sedate in following her.

Rose greeted them in the doorway. “Good thing you're here, I've been wondering. Any news?”

“You know as much as we do,” Clara told her, hugging her warmly. “It's good to see you.”

“And you.” Rose smiled, patting her friend on the back. Then she pulled back, more serious. “You haven’t heard from the Doctor?”

“Nothing,” said Clara, shrugging. “But you know how he is.”

“Sherlock's still in our flat. He tried to call,” John put in, “but someone was too busy driving a motorbike to let me answer it.”

Glancing at Clara, who sniffed, Rose giggled. “Somehow I'm not surprised. Well, you might as well come in, then.”

“Hold on, the Doctor’s not here?” Clara asked in confusion. “I thought the crack was right in your garden.”

“Well, it might have been once, but not anymore.” She led them inside to the kitchen and pushed back the curtains so they could look out through the window. “Just a garden.”

“Why were we supposed to come here, if there’s nothing?” Clara rubbed her eyes, turning away from the window.

“A rendezvous, maybe?” Rose suggested. “I’m sure he’ll be back eventually.”

“So where’s he gone, then?” John demanded, glancing around the room as if he expected the Time Lord to pop out from behind a chair. 

“I don’t know,” said Rose with a sigh, letting the curtain fall. “I really don’t know.”


	16. All in Good Time

“Sherlock? I hope you’re still there.”

The Doctor peered at the end of the sonic, tapping the green bulb. “Better not to talk too much about it now. Meet me at Rose’s house as soon as you can. I have to cut the link so I can close the crack, but I’ll see you soon.”

With a final grin, he pressed a few buttons on the screwdriver, closing down the video connection, then pointed it at the still-flickering crack. Flicking his wrist, the sonic lit up, and with one last flare, the long crack seemed to wink out, with no sign it’d ever been there.

“Well. That was easy.” The Doctor flipped the sonic into the air, then caught it and stowed it smoothly in his jacket pocket. “Time to go, then,” he said, and with his characteristic energy, darted out of the alley, running towards Rose’s house and wishing, not for the first time, that he had his TARDIS. “Just one more day,” he promised himself. “If they want to play games, I will not disappoint.”

Sherlock, too, was getting ready to go - slipping on his scarf and coat and heading out to the street. Bemoaning the lack of cabs in small towns, he started walking, heedless of the heat. 

Over and over again he went through the conversation he’d seen, hearing it ringing through the halls of his mind palace. Changing the players. Why were they giving them the TARDIS? Where was challenge, where was the plan? Though he found it nearly impossible, he forced himself to consider the possibility that John could soon regard him with the same suspicion he’d had from so many others - others, but never John. Never John. 

Unconsciously, he increased his pace, determined not to waste a second in getting to John, not willing to allow his enemies a second to work. Pulling out his mobile, he punched in John’s number, but after the second ring was informed that the call was dropped due to poor connection. His suspicions grew - in the months they’d been here, nothing like that had ever happened. 

“What is it? There’s something… Something I’m missing…” He pounded his head in frustration, frightening an elderly lady out trimming her flowers. He hurried on, ignoring the looks. He knew he’d come up with it eventually, he always had before, but he could only hope he’d be in time.  
xxxxxxxxxxx  
“I guess we’ll just have to wait,” Rose said brightly, turning away from the window and pasting a smile on her face. “Sit down, maybe?” 

John nodded, going into her cozy living room and settling into an armchair. Clara followed, her gaze miles away. “Are you sure there was something?” she asked, distracted. “I mean, it wasn’t just some false alarm,” she added when the others looked at her. “Wouldn’t be the first time, after all. Some little flare or whatever and the Doctor goes tearing off.” She shrugged, a bit defensively. 

“You’ve got a point,” Rose admitted. “He gets excited, that’s all.”

“Usually doesn’t get Sherlock in on it, though,” John put in. “Not that I’ve seen, anyway.” 

“I guess we’ll find out.” Rose sat down on the couch, running a finger along the edge with a little smile. “I’m just glad he’s here.” 

“Yeah, lucky, isn’t it? Out of all the parallel universes, he just happened to pop into this one.”

“Well, he did say it was something with the TARDIS having been here before, didn’t he?” John asked, stretching out in the chair. “Recognized it or whatever.” 

“Yeah, but I’ve traveled through universes, lots of times,” Rose told him, frowning slightly. “The first time with him, I mean, the other him, the old him,” she corrected herself with a shake of her head, “it knocked out the whole TARDIS. Almost killed it. Took us twenty-four hours to charge her back up, but this time, nothing.” She shrugged. “It was perfectly fine. I don’t get it.”

“Maybe just because it was the first time?” Clara suggested. But Rose shook her head.

“The Doctor said the TARDIS gets it energy from the universe, but it has to be that universe, just that one. Cause that's where it was made, I guess.”

“But if it's still working here, we've got to be still in that other universe,” Clara said excitedly, looking at her friends for confirmation. “We never left.” John looked unsure.

“Universe energy? I don't know.”

“Well, none of us do, really,” Clara retorted, nettled. “All this space stuff, all we've got is what the Doctor tells us.”

John raised an eyebrow. “That isn't enough?”

An uncomfortable silence followed. Clara was unwilling to back down but hesitant to agree, and didn't really know where to look. John, feeling slightly guilty but not quite sure why, buried himself in his mobile, checking in on his blog.

“You have to have left,” murmured Rose, so quietly Clara almost didn’t hear her. “Left and come back because otherwise that means he lied to me and left me behind and the Doctor I knew - the Doctor I know would never do that.”

Clara and John stared at her, at a loss for words.

“Er, I think I’ll make tea,” Rose said, hastily wiping her eyes as she got up from the couch. “Clara, join me?”

“Yeah, sure.” Grateful for a chance to be busy, the two women started off for the kitchen in search of tea bags, leaving John alone. 

Once he was certain they were gone, John sighed, rubbing his eyes. He hadn’t known the Doctor long, and certainly couldn’t claim to know him well, but from what he’d seen, he reminded him a lot of Sherlock. Sure, the Doctor was a lot more exuberant and high-energy than his friend had ever been, and was definitely friendlier, but John sensed that their minds operated in very similar patterns. Both worked in worlds that were very much outside the norm, and as much as they might know, they couldn’t possibly know everything. However, they were able to make assumptions based on what they knew and operate off them. In Sherlock’s case, at least, those assumptions tended to pan out, and John was inclined to extend trust to the Doctor.

It irked him, then, to see the Doctor’s companion, someone in his own place, not having that trust. Perhaps the Doctor wasn’t entirely correct, but John knew his job, and Clara’s and Rose’s job as well, was to support and help their friends as they sorted out what was real and what wasn’t. Questioning, doubting, wondering, that didn’t do anyone any good, especially not in such an uncertain game. 

“We’ve got to trust them,” he muttered, shaking his head. “If not them, who in this world can we trust?”

“Oh John. Who, indeed?”

John shot out of his chair, looking for the source of the voice. Stretching across the back wall of Rose’s living room was a fat, snaking crack, pouring white light into the room. And peering out of this crack, clad in a white doctor’s coat, was Professor Moriarty, a concerned and pitying look on his face. 

“You’d been doing so well, John,” he said, shaking his head and leaning back in his chair. “What made you go back?”

“Back, what do you mean, back?” he demanded. “What do you want?”

Moriarty’s eyebrows went up. “Ooh, you’re in deep this time, aren’t you?”

“Either explain what the hell you want or leave me alone,” John told him, baffled and angry. 

“Of course, John,” Moriarty said patiently. “Everything will be explained. All in good time.” He smiled, and in this smile was the first faint hint of the master criminal John was expecting. “I promise.”


	17. What Is It?

“I don't get it,” Clara confessed, eyes flashing with irritation. “I mean, I know the Doctor knows more than I ever could about space and dimensions and all that, but that doesn't mean we just follow him blindly!”

“I know,” Rose said, boiling water for tea. “He needs someone to question him sometimes. Keep him honest.”

“Exactly!” Crossing her arms, she slumped back against the counter, dark hair falling in her face. “Nobody's perfect, not even Sherlock. No matter what he might think.” She jerked her head in John's general direction.

“So what're you going to do?” her friend asked, pouring out two cups.

“Do?” Clara blinked in surprise. “I'm… I'm not really sure there's much we can do.”

Rose sighed. “Maybe you're right,” she mused. “But I can't help thinking it all comes down to that crack. If you are right, if you never-” She cleared her throat. “Never actually left that other universe, then what are the cracks?”

“I don't know.” Clara paused a moment, thinking. “The Doctor's always talking about how they're holes between realities, and void in between and things. I still don't think he believes any of this should have been possible.”

“But the Master and Moriarty, they're definitely not here, they're planning things, doing things,” Rose pointed out. “Even if we don't know what. I'm sure we'd see it, though.”

“You'd think.” Clara drifted off into thought, mulling it over. Rose said nothing, finishing off their tea. Finally the young teacher got to her feet determinedly. “I'm going to find out.”

“What? How?”

“Go find that crack. That's what you were leading up to, wasn't it?” Clara grinned, pleased to have a course of action. “See if it's still open, see if it ever existed at all.”

“How will you find it?” Rose asked, the tea lying forgotten on the countertop. “Won't the Doctor have shut it by now?”

Clara shrugged. “Maybe,” she said lightly, “but there's no harm in trying. If nothing else, at least I'll find him. God knows he's easy to follow. He leaves a trail of confused people behind wherever he goes!”

Laughing, Rose nodded. “Good point. Well, good luck.”

“You're not coming?”

“No, somebody's got to stay here,” she said with a soft smile. “Just in case they do come back.”

“John's here,” Clara pointed out.

“Well, yes, but…” She hesitated. “I think we need someone who really knows the Doctor to stay behind, you know? He doesn't… he doesn't quite get it.” 

“Fair enough.” Clara pulled out the keys to her motorbike. “Don't suppose you'd know at least the general direction he went in?”

“He ran off that way,” Rose told her, pointing out the window.

“Perfect. I'll see you soon, then?”

Rose smiled. “Count on it.”

With a little wave, Clara strode out the back door, heading for the street. Within minutes she was back on her bike, cruising down the street in the direction Rose had shown her. 

It didn’t take long to pick up the trail - it was a warm, sunny day, and there were plenty of people outside in their yards who had seen the strange man in the funny hat go by. On the advice of several strangers, Clara soon found herself in a part of town she’d never been, full of factories and warehouses. She was just about to give up when she heard a voice - a voice she’d know anywhere. 

“Sherlock? I hope you’re still there.”

Immediately she cut the engine, parking the bike in the meager strip of grass beside the street. Being as quiet as possible, she crept towards the edge of the building the voice had come from, peering around the corner.

The Doctor stood facing a brick wall with a large flickering crack stretching across it. He was looking right at the sonic screwdriver and appeared to be speaking right into it. She held back, unwilling to reveal herself just yet. She wanted to get a clear idea of exactly what was going on, with as little outside influence as possible.

“He was right about that, at least,” she murmured. “There really is a crack.” And she’d made it in time to get a look at it!

She was dismayed, then, to see the Doctor end his conversation and sonic the crack shut. Within seconds, the brick wall was only that - a wall, with no sign it’d ever been anything else. 

“Damn it.” She slumped back against the wall, blowing her hair out of her face. Too late after all. Moments later she shrunk down, making herself as small as she could as the Doctor ran by. 

“If they want to play games, I will not disappoint,” he was saying under his breath. He didn’t glance once at the motorbike, for which she was extremely thankful. 

With a sigh of relief, Clara waited a moment to give herself some breathing room, then rose to her feet. 

Glancing over her shoulder, the young woman headed around the back of the building, stopping at what she best estimated was the place the crack had opened.

“Nothing,” she said aloud, giving way to some of her frustration. She stepped closer, examining every groove in the worn brick. “Not a bleeding thing. How’re you supposed to learn anything from the thing if it disappears every time you turn around?” 

Clara kicked the wall in annoyance, which only increased at the pain in her toe, then, unwilling to return empty-handed, sat down on the dusty road, staring at the stubborn stone before her. 

“What did he mean, playing games?” she mused. “If that's what this is, I'm not having fun. But isn't that just like the Doctor,” she added to herself, pelting bits of gravel at the offending brickwork. “Everything's a game. He and Sherlock. Two geniuses, playing together and turning other people's lives upside down.”

In her heart of hearts, Clara knew she wasn't being fair, knew that what she was saying was one of the things that caused the Doctor the most guilt, though she couldn't speak for Sherlock. But just at that moment, with nothing going her way, she didn't much care.

Getting to her feet again, she walked up to the wall, running her fingers along the area she thought the crack had been. Already she was forgetting - both the location and the crack itself. Rubbing her eyes, Clara frowned. Surely this wasn’t quite normal?

But what more was there to do? “Fine,” she said aloud. “Fine. You win. I give up.” Not even she was sure whether she was talking to the wall, to their hidden opponents, or perhaps to the Doctor himself. “Trust the Doctor or bust, I suppose.” With a final sigh, she headed for the mouth of the road to retrieve her bike when a strange sound reached her ears. 

It sounded how she imagined lightning might - a tight sort of buzzing hum. Turning around, Clara had to shield her eyes to even see at all. The crack was flickering - not properly open, but flickering in and out, the rippling white light playing around the street. 

“What…” Carefully, Clara stepped closer, peering in at the light, looking for the source. If she could see through it, see to the other side…

Closer and closer she came, and still she saw nothing. She could hear voices, though - nothing distinguishable, but a definite babble of light conversation. “Hello?” she called. “Anyone there?” 

The voices stopped for a moment, then resumed, louder than before, but still not clear enough for her to discern individual words, or even specific voices. Overlaying it all, though, was on odd rhythm: four beats, repeated in quick succession, over and over again. It was almost hypnotic.

“Listen, I know you can hear me,” she told the voices firmly, bending over to put her face level with the crack. “What's going on? What is this crack?”

Still no answer clear enough to hear, but Clara was certain it was possible. She bent closer and closer still, straining her ears to catch anything she could. 

Something about the light seemed to be playing tricks on her eyes - dancing around, so bright it left streaks through her vision. Clara rubbed her eyes, trying to clear them, but the streaks got bigger and bigger, filling her entire field of view.

It felt as though the light was in her mind, too, wrapping around each thought and turning it pure white. Clara didn't mind much - it was a beautiful feeling, one of clarity and release. Without quite knowing how it happened, her balance shifted. It felt like falling down, but soon she was rising. And then she didn't feel anything.  
xxxxxxxxxxx  
”Sherlock, there you are!”

The Doctor skidded to a halt in front of Rose's house, panting, and waved to the dark-coated detective further down the street. “I was beginning to wonder if you'd be here,” he told him as Sherlock drew near. “Not even out of breath!”

“The life of a consulting detective isn't what one might call sedentary,” Sherlock replied coolly.

“No, I guess not. Good strong heart.” He patted his chest, grinning. “Of course, with two, you get twice the circulation.”

Sherlock looked up at the Time Lord, momentarily taken aback, but decided it wasn't worth pursuing at that moment. “The others are inside?”

“I assume so.” The Doctor straightened his bow tie, glancing sideways at his companion. “So what do you make of it?” he asked quietly. “This game of theirs, changing up the players?”

“It’s very clever, I’ll give them that.” Sherlock shrugged. “Beyond that, I can’t say.”

“Oh, come on. You must have some idea. A guess, at least?”

“At least. Several, in fact.”

“Well, go on, then.” The Doctor spread his arms wide, eyebrows up. “Impress me.”

“Hmm.” The detective eyed the space traveler with a faintly amused smile. “You don’t seem too eager to share your own thoughts.”

Laughing, the Doctor threw up his hands. “Fair enough,” he admitted. “One does hate to be wrong. And you must save it all for the dramatic reveal, of course,” he added, tapping the side of his nose with a wink. 

Sherlock smirked, despite John’s voice in his head. Drama queen. “I suppose we’d best go in,” he said aloud, starting up the path without waiting for an answer. 

Rose greeted them at the door, so quickly that Sherlock assumed she could only have been watching through the window. “Oh thank God. We thought- Well, we didn’t know what to think.” She stood aside to let them in. The Doctor gave her a quick kiss as he went by, then bounded into the living room.

“John, how’ve you been? Long time, no see!” He glanced back at Rose, as if showing off his use of modern phrases.

John started at his voice, turning around. He was on his feet, staring at a blank wall. “Er, yeah, hello.” His gaze slid past the Doctor, landing on Sherlock. The detective caught his breath - there was something new in John’s eyes, something he’d never seen before. Was it… suspicion?

“John, what happened?” he asked, trying to figure out what had changed in his friend.

“Nothing,” John replied, rather hastily, in Sherlock’s opinion. “I’m fine. The crack,” he said, looking away from Sherlock with a somewhat forced smile. “Closed?”

“I thought so,” the Doctor said, pulling the sonic screwdriver out of his jacket pocket and examining it. “There wasn’t anything for a while; at least, not that I noticed, but it’s been flickering again.” Indeed, Sherlock could see the sonic vibrating slightly, with no pattern he could discern. 

“So it didn’t shut properly.”

“‘Spose so.” He shook the screwdriver. “Not enough to let anything through, but it’s not gone. Just… flickering.” He froze.

“Doctor?” Rose was instantly at his side. “What’s wrong?”

In answer, he held up the sonic. Everyone could see it vibrating like mad.

“Something’s gone through,” John said, glancing at the Doctor for confirmation.

“Someone, more like,” Sherlock corrected him. “An inanimate object would have to be thrown, which is unlikely. Animals are too smart to mess with the extraterrestrial. Balance of probability suggests a random bystander, nothing we need worry about-”

The Doctor held up a hand, cutting off his flow of theories. He stared around the living room, and his question, though simple, carried all the weight of his centuries. “Where’s Clara?”


	18. Wake Up

Clara sat up with a groan, pushing the hair out of her face. Her whole body felt stiff, like she hadn’t moved in millenia. Maybe she hadn’t.

She opened her eyes and found, to her surprise, that she was lying on the floor of the TARDIS. It wasn’t the TARDIS as she’d last seen it - the lights were dimmed and there were none of the usuals hums and dings. It was as if the time machine was sleeping.

Slowly Clara got to her feet, not sure that she trusted her legs to hold her. She had been lying near the door, she saw now.

“Okay,” she said aloud. If she could pretend she was talking to the Doctor, things wouldn’t seem nearly so odd. “So I've gone through the crack, then.” She shook her head, then instantly regretted it. “Nasty way to travel. I'd much rather be here.”

Clara glanced around, looking for the crack. Surely if she’d just come through, it couldn’t have closed yet. But the TARDIS was dim still, with no white light at all. 

Carefully she stepped forward, feeling her way towards the console. If I can get there, maybe I can get some lights on and figure out where in the universe I am, she reasoned. And where the rest of them are. 

She was nearly there when she trod on something soft and squishy. Jumping back, she looked down.

“Oh my God, Doctor, I’m so sorry!” Clara dropped to her knees, straining her eyes to see through the darkness. The Doctor’s unconscious form was stretched out on the TARDIS floor, flat on his back, just like she had been. She’d stepped on his arm.

“Doctor, what’s wrong? Wake up!” She patted his cheeks desperately, trying to rouse him. “Doctor, please!”

Clara stood up, determined to at least get some lights on so she could see what, if anything, was wrong with her friend. She made it to the console and stared at the array of buttons before her.

“Oh, come on!” She pounded the console in frustration. “I know you can hear me, help me out!” 

One light flickered on the console, as if taunting her - or warning her. 

“Just lights, that’s all I ask,” she pleaded. “Just so I can help him!”

There was no response for a moment, then, with a reluctant whirr, the TARDIS came to life. The lights along the walls slowly lit up, and Clara saw that the situation was worse than she’d imagined. 

The Doctor was lying on the floor, yes, but he wasn’t alone. Just behind him was John, slumped forward with his head on his arm; and behind him…

“Sherlock? What… He’s never been in the TARDIS.” Clara frowned in confusion. How did he get in here? “Any ideas?” she asked the TARDIS, without much hope. All she received in response was a sad chime. “Thanks,” she muttered.

In addition to the men, several wires ran from the console to the door, which was ever so slightly cracked open. Perhaps this was why the TARDIS was so unwilling to work?

Trying to stay quiet, Clara crept towards the door, trying not to make any more noise than she already had. As she came closer, she became aware of voices again - the same ones she’d heard only moments before in that other universe. Or had it been longer? Carefully, she pulled the door open a crack, just wide enough for one eye to see out. 

The room was a bustling one, with all the business and sterility of a hospital surgery room. Technicians scuttled about everywhere, turning dials and pressing buttons on massive computers Clara knew she’d never in a million years be able to understand. There was a circle of dead space, though, several meters wide around the TARDIS outside, where no one was willing to go. Indeed, Clara saw one older woman change course abruptly when she came too close. 

Despite all of the business, the room was oddly silent. None of the workers spoke a word, and all communication, if there was any, was either wordless or through text. The sound of machines humming rang in the room, overlaid by the occasional footsteps. 

But the thing that caught her attention most was the forms of two men standing off in the distance, heads bent together in deep conversation. Though they had their backs to her, Clara was certain they were the Master and Moriarty. Because of the quiet, snatches of their conversation carried across the room. 

“...definitely woken up,” one was saying. Clara thought it was the Master. “Pity. She was a valuable asset.”

“Could be worse,” the other replied. This was definitely Moriarty. “Our hold was the least secure on her. Control freaks are never easily controlled.” Clara bristled - were they talking about her? “If we had to lose one, let it be her.”

“We shouldn’t have lost any at all,” the Master said irritably. “We have complete control over the entire dream world. Everything was-” The footsteps of a passing technician obscured the rest of the sentence, leaving Clara reeling. 

Dream world? Complete control? She shook her head, hanging back. “It wasn’t real,” she murmured. “That entire universe, that entire time… we were here all along.” 

“...most time in the TARDIS, too,” continued the Master, visibly irritated now. “Except for the Doctor, of course. We should have had the most control over her! We got a direct imprint from John with that telepathic circuit, but she’s been traveling in there for ages. What’d’you think we rigged up all those bloody wires for?”

Clara glanced down at the neatly wrapped bundle of wires snaking between her feet. Connecting to the TARDIS memory banks, or maybe the circuit itself… Whichever it was, she had to hand it to them: very clever. 

“Calm down,” Moriarty said soothingly. “I’m making wonderful progress with John, and we know we have a firm hold on Rose. The Doctor will choose her over Clara, every time. Don’t you agree?”

Clara winced, though she had to admit it was probably true. And Sherlock, callous though he might seem, was definitely bound to John just as tightly. 

She glanced back at the sleeping forms behind her, then shook her head. No, this couldn’t be allowed to go on. Cautiously, Clara nudged the door shut, then tiptoed back to the console, gathering the bundle of wires as she went. When she was certain she had them all, she took a deep breath, then yanked as hard as she could.

Wires popped from plugs all over the TARDIS console, so many Clara couldn’t believe the Master had figured out where to put them all. Almost immediately, alarms started blaring outside in the lab. 

Abandoning any thought of stealth, Clara seized her bundle of cords and ran for the door. She flung it open and hurled the cords out, right into the faces of the panicked lab attendants outside, then yanked the door shut and bolted it tight. 

Only a few seconds later, the door shuddered as someone yanked on the handle. Leaning back against the door, Clara braced herself, trying to prepare for whatever might try to come through. 

“Leave it,” the Master’s voice ordered from outside. “He’s had entire Mongol hordes hammering on that door, you lot aren’t going to budge it.” Clara could hear his irritation. “She needs to open it herself, all the keys are inside.”

“Clara, what are you trying to accomplish?” Moriarty asked. His voice was so close it made her skin crawl, and she hurriedly backed away from the door. “Disconnecting us won’t break the illusion, won’t wake them up. All you’re doing is taking away our chance to manipulate it.”

“Good,” she shot back. “You’re not helping at all.”

“Oh, but Clara, don’t you see? You’ve cut off all connection with the real world. They’re trapped in the dreams now, without a chance of escape.”

“Well, I did,” she retorted. “I managed just fine on my own. I’m sure they will too.”

“But that’s the difference.” Moriarty’s voice was soft and subtle, so incredibly persuasive. “You already doubted.”

Clara stopped, frowning. “What do you mean?”

“You already knew didn’t you?” he asked. “Deep down, you suspected something wasn’t right. Why else would you have come looking for us?”

“But the Doctor knows too, and Sherlock,” she said, trying to fight off her growing doubts. “They’ve been waiting for you for months!”

“Perhaps,” Moriarty admitted. “But believe me, Clara, when they realize the full extent of what we’ve planned for them, they won’t be willing to leave. John is already caught tight, and Rose, well…” He chuckled. “She’ll be easy enough.” 

“What do you mean?” Clara demanded, shouting now. “Tell me what’s going on!”

“Have fun in there, Clara,” the Master said with a laugh. “Don’t go anywhere. We’ll say a few good luck prayers for your friends.” She heard more laughter and receding footsteps as the pair walked away from the TARDIS, followed by the crowd of lab techs.

Clara waited a second longer to make sure they were out of earshot, then ran back to the Doctor. She fell to her knees at his side, shaking his shoulders. “Doctor,” she whispered, her voice choked. “Please wake up!”


	19. Trust Me

“Clara?” Rose's voice was shaking. “She- She left to look for you, while we were waiting… Doctor, you don't think-”

“Yes I do,” he said grimly, holding up his screwdriver to show them. It was vibrating so much he was likely to drop it. “Even the crack opening didn't register this much activity. It has to be.”

“Oh honestly,” John said, shaking his head. “What are the odds? It's probably just some random passerby who got a little too close. Not that it matters,” he added darkly, refusing to meet Sherlock's gaze.

“It's definitely her,” the Doctor said, shutting off the screwdriver with a sharp flick of his wrist. “Remember what the Master and Moriarty said?” He turned to Sherlock. “Changing the game, changing the players. They've taken her.”

Sherlock said nothing, but his face showed he didn't fully agree. The Doctor, though, was too agitated to notice.

“Okay, so what're we going to do?” Rose asked, taking the Doctor's hand. He glanced down at her, smiling slightly, but he was clearly distracted.

“Well, we get the TARDIS back tomorrow, good news,” he told her. “So then we can find her and pick her up.”

“But how’re you going to know where to find her?”

“Still working on that,” he admitted. “Sherlock, go look at the spot where the crack opened, see if you can find any clue things. John, go to her house, then the school. See if she went there. Rose-”

“No.” John’s voice was quiet, but hard as stone. It pulled the Doctor up short.

“Sorry, what?”

“I said, I’m not doing it.” Although clearly uncomfortable under the sudden attention, John held his ground. “I’m not getting sent away while you do whatever you two’ve been planning, I’m not-” He took a breath. “I’m not letting myself get dragged any deeper into this.”

The Doctor frowned, then glanced at Sherlock. The exchange did not go unnoticed. “I haven’t got time for this,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. Rose looked on, clearly worried. 

“What d’you mean, you haven’t got time, you’re a bloody Time Lord!” John shouted. “Of course you’ve got time, I’ll make you have time. I’m not about to get run over by my own damn imagination!”

“Clara’s missing, and you want to-” The Doctor broke off, turning away. “Sherlock, sort him out. I need…” He sighed. “I need to think.”

“Come on, John,” Sherlock said gently, reaching for his arm, but John pulled away.

“Don’t touch me,” he spat. “I don’t need to be led.” He stalked out the door into the back garden, Sherlock following helplessly behind. Rose watched them go, her expression unreadable. 

“What do you think’s gone wrong?” she asked the Doctor quietly, turning away from the door. 

“How should I know?” he snapped. “I have enough trouble understanding one or two humans, I can’t be expected to explain everything everyone does.” 

Rose flinched, then cautiously stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder from behind. Immediately the Doctor softened, putting his hand up to meet hers, then turning around and pulling her close. “I’m sorry,” he murmured into her hair. “It’s been a day.” 

“Yeah. Tell me about it.” She grinned up at him, and he couldn’t help but smile. “Still got me, though.”

“Still got you.” He kissed her briefly on the forehead, then was off again. “But we’ve got to find Clara and get her back, or at least get to where she is. Why don’t you go to her house, then, and I’ll head for where the crack opened. Then maybe I can rig some kind of sensor-”

“Doctor, wait.” Rose put out a hand to stop him. “I- I need to talk to you first.”

“Rose, we need to hurry-”

“Please.” 

Something in her voice held him back, and he leaned against the table, eyes fixed on hers. “What is it?”

“Well, you made me promise that if you ever… That if it happened again, that I’d tell you.” She was hesitant, and clearly, every word hurt. 

“If what happened again?”

She sighed, laughing slightly. “I’m sorry, I just - I had hoped last time would be the end of it.”

“Rose.” The Doctor stepped up to her, taking her hands. “Tell me.” 

Rose wiped her eyes, then took a steadying breath. “Doctor, Clara’s dead.” 

The Doctor actually took a step back, dropping her hands as if she’d burned him. “Of course she’s not, what do you mean?”

“Doctor, don’t do this,” she begged, reaching for him. “You know what I’m saying is true-”

“Tell me everything,” he commanded, voice hard. He couldn’t meet her eyes. “From the beginning.” 

“God. Okay.” She pulled out a chair from the kitchen table and sat down, folding her hands in front of her. “I don’t know everything, just what you’ve told me.”

“Start with that.”

“Okay. You said… On your last adventure, you and Clara were in space when you got pulled in by, I dunno, salvagers or something. They damaged the TARDIS, and you had to go all the way into her heart, the two of you.”

“Yes, I remember,” the Doctor said impatiently. “But Clara didn’t die there, she was here only minutes ago, you said so.” 

“I know, I was just…” She shook her head. “Playing along, I suppose. John and Sherlock, too. We’ve been through this before, we knew what to expect. She did die there, Doctor.”

The Doctor closed his eyes. “Stop it,” he said tightly. “Just stop it.”

“Doctor, you need to know.” With a deep breath, she continued, “You were right on the brink of a cliff, I think. Something about defense mechanisms, I don’t really know. And you said Clara was impossible, and that you’d met her before. You told her that.”

“Yes. So?” The memory was with him, clear as day, but he was still not seeing the connection. “I couldn’t figure her out. Still can’t. I’ve seen her die, twice, and she’s still here.”

“Three times,” Rose corrected him gently. “That knowledge was too much for her, Doctor. It burned up her brain. Remember Donna?”

“No, we changed it,” the Doctor said stubbornly. “I went through a crack, I erased that entire day.”

“Exactly. You went through a crack. The first crack you’d seen in ages, right?”

He had to admit she was correct. 

“And then suddenly you’re here. Through a crack, on some mad adventure. And they keep appearing. First they pulled Sherlock through, then you and John came through in the TARDIS.” Rose shrugged helplessly. “She never came with.”

“But I remember her here, she was in the TARDIS, she taught school here, she can’t have-” He stopped, not willing to say it.

“Your memories… I’m sorry, but they’re wrong.”

He shook his head emphatically. “They can’t be-”

“Doctor please, just let me finish.” She closed her eyes and said the rest very fast, as if hearing it quickly would make it easier to bear. “You’ve created an entire reality, an entire world for yourself to cope with the loss, and now it’s falling apart and she’s gone, again, and you’re going to rebuild the entire illusion and forget this ever happened, again, and I don’t think I’ll be able to stand it.” 

She ended with a sob, staring pleadingly up at the Time Lord as if hoping for forgiveness. The Doctor was silent for a long moment, not once looking at her. “How many times has this happened?” he asked finally. 

“At least six that I know of,” she said hesitantly, unwilling to add more bad news. “In the months you’ve been here, at least.” 

“But I’ve lost people before,” he protested, seizing on the idea. “My friends, people I’ve loved, I’ve lost them, over and over and over, that’s what happens.” Rose flinched. “But this’s never happened before.”

“But has it ever been directly your fault?” Now it was the Doctor’s turn to flinch. “Doctor, please, I’m sorry, but you have to know it’s true. I’m not blaming you,” she added hurriedly, “never that. And you couldn’t have known it’d… hurt her… like that.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Doctor, trust me. You’ve told me this yourself. Clara is dead.” Rose looked up at him, eyes full of tears she was stubbornly trying to hide behind a smile. “And I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, but you’re what killed her.”


	20. Chemical Defects

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Be careful, friends: this is where trigger warnings come in. A little drug abuse, a little self-harm. It's gonna be heavy. If you're worried, contact me somehow and I'll just give you a summary of what happens so you can stay abreast of the plot.

John stomped out into the garden, kicking at the dirt. He knew he was being childish, but at that moment, he didn’t much care.

Sherlock’s voice came from behind him. “John. What’s going on?”

“Like you don’t know.” 

Sherlock took a step back. This sort of behavior was totally unprecedented in his friend. Well, he admitted to himself, recalling one memorable night in a restaurant, maybe not totally. That last time was when John had felt betrayed - he guessed that was it, at least, though he had to admit, he still wasn’t certain why John had reacted as he had to his sudden return from the grave. 

Probably betrayal, then. And if he was reading the cues right… 

“John, tell me what I’ve done.”

Finally, John turned to face him. “Let’s start with dying, shall we?” He had an ironic little smile on his face, one that had absolutely no warmth. 

“Dying, what do you mean?” 

“I mean, two years ago, when you threw yourself off a roof.”

Sherlock frowned. “We talked about this already. Moriarty had to be stopped, it was the only way-”

“You killed yourself.”

“Well, clearly I didn’t.” He smiled, spreading his arms wide, but the joke fell flat. 

“No, Sherlock, you did.” John’s face was curiously blank, but his eyebrows were down just enough to let Sherlock know that there was a tremendous amount of anger behind the facade. And something more, too. Shame? “Nobody could survive a fall like that, not even you, no matter how indestructible you are.” He chuckled humorlessly. “Good word choice.”

“John, what are you talking about? This isn’t you.” Sherlock was struggling to understand, something rare for him. 

“No, this is me, this is exactly me,” John told him, stabbing him in the chest with one finger. “This is me when I’m not around you.”

“Yes, exactly!” Something about this wasn’t adding up. “But I’m here, John. What, is it some kind of psychosis? Delusions, maybe-”

John held up a hand, looking down. “Just shut up, just shut up right now.” He shook his head. “God. I knew this would be hard. I mean, Moriarty warned me, but-”

“Hold on, did you say Moriarty?” Sherlock repeated in disbelief. “You’re listening to him now?”

“Why shouldn’t I, he’s my rehab doctor!”

Stopping in the middle of a sentence, Sherlock froze. “Your what?”

About to fire off an angry reply, John bit his tongue. Truth be told, he knew he shouldn’t be furious at Sherlock. More at himself. But it was so easy to see the detective as the source of his troubles. 

Sherlock seemed to sense the moment of indecision. “Please, John. What did he say?”

“He said… Well, he explained…” John cleared his throat, still looking at his feet. “Apparently, right after you died-”

Go through his things, that’s all they’d said. His therapist had thought it’d be good for him. A sort of release. Closure. He hadn’t believed it, but hadn’t been able to muster the energy to disagree. They’d sent him in alone, too. His morbid side had marvelled that they trusted him not to slit his wrists in the bathtub or something - he hadn’t been left alone at all since…

Maybe that wasn’t his morbid side. Who could tell the difference anymore?

“It was in the back of one of your drawers. I don’t know why I was looking, exactly.”

The damn sock index. That’s what had done it. So neat, so orderly, so completely Sherlock. He hadn’t been able to resist. He’d slid open the neatly closed drawer, looking at the rows and columns of carefully folded socks, fading from black to navy to white. One pair in the back had caught his eye - a brightly colored blue plaid pair completely unlike any of the others. Maybe a gift?

“Tucked away in the back. You’re rubbish at hiding things, Sherlock.”

For a moment, John’s face softened, returning to the man Sherlock knew. But only for a moment.

He’d pulled them out, just to have a look at them, just to see. It wasn’t like Sherlock would care now if it got disrupted. And behind them, in the corner of the drawer, was a tiny bag full of soft white powder. It’d broken his heart a bit - although that mind was now gone, it still hurt him to know he’d been destroying it like that.

“But somehow you were always at your best on it, weren’t you?” John shook his head. “I never understood it. I’m still not sure I do. But I thought maybe… Some sort of connection…” He shrugged helplessly, bitterly. “I suppose I got it.”

Not even a week without Sherlock and already he was desperate to find him again. Honestly, he’d been desperate since the second he’d seen his best friend start to fall from that hospital roof. If this could open his mind, bring him to the same state Sherlock had been in all too often… wasn’t it worth the damage?

“I took it,” he confessed. “All of it, right there. I’m not proud of it.” He said it so matter-of-factly, as if he was discussing what to have with tea. “When I didn’t come back down, they went up and found me passed out on the floor. They said I should have died.”

Sometimes he wished he had. 

“But it kept me going. Even when they sent me to rehab, packed me away, it still helped. I did whatever I could to get more, because then I got to see you again.” He grinned up at Sherlock, his eyes dead. “Been a hell of a year, hasn’t it?”

“So, what, you think that everything since I came back, everything we did, was some drug-induced hallucination?” Even as he said the words, Sherlock couldn’t believe it. He marvelled at the genius of Moriarty’s plan - what better way to make John stop trusting him than to make John stop trusting himself?

“It makes more sense than all of this,” John answered, waving a hand around at the garden. “Time travel, hopping through dimensions, cracks between universes. People coming back from the dead.”

“Maybe so, John, but when has anything we’ve ever done made sense? What about the attack on Parliament, the mayfly murderer?”

“Relapses. Just like this.”

“What about Mary? Is she a hallucination too? Is she a relapse?”

John was silent. 

“And Moriarty. He’s a psychopath, John. This is exactly the sort of thing he loves. Spreading doubt and fear, breaking people apart.” Sherlock knew he was speeding up, bordering on incoherent, but he couldn’t keep himself in check. Somehow the chemical defects were the least of his worries. “He did exactly the same thing when he was trying to get me to kill myself, remember?”

“I remember that you did kill yourself,” he replied evenly, his eyes unreadable. 

Sherlock turned away, clutching his head. “Oh, this is clever,” he muttered, pacing tight circles around the garden. “If this is all hallucination, then of course he would demonize the doctor trying to help him, of course he’d invent the most improbable things, always trying to top what came before. But John, you have to believe me, you know this is real, I’m real-”

He rounded on John, reaching for his shoulders, and was greeted instead by the barrel of a gun. John’s hands were steady, his eyes straight out of Afghanistan. Slowly, Sherlock raised his hands in the air.

“John, you don’t want to do this-”

“Stay where you are.” His voice was firm and resolved. “For two years I have been trapped in a vicious cycle of pain and fog, never knowing what was real, not knowing what I wanted to be real. It is a result of my own actions, but I am fully aware of the root.”

Sherlock looked at him for a moment, then nodded slowly. If this is what it takes, then so be it. “If I’m a hallucination, this won’t hurt me. But if I’m not…”

“I know.” For the first time in that strange afternoon, Sherlock saw a flicker of sadness, of regret, of confusion. Of John. Then his face hardened again. “But I won’t have any way of knowing the difference.”

Their eyes met for one fleeting instant, and then John pulled the trigger.


	21. We Know

“No, I didn’t- How can it be my fault if I don’t even remember it?” The Doctor was reeling, struggling to process what he was hearing. 

“You truly think guilt dies with memories?” Rose shook her head sadly. “Look around. You know that’s not true. It can’t be.”

“I won’t accept it,” the Doctor said firmly, lifting his chin in determination. “She isn’t dead.” Every bit of his being rebelled against the idea.

But Rose’s look of pain and pity nearly crumbled his facade. “Doctor, this entire disaster is because of you not accepting it.” She shrugged helplessly. “How long are you going to let it go on?”

She stood up suddenly, abruptly, as if unable to stand it any longer. “I, er, made some tea, earlier, when-” She stopped. “Well, I’ll go heat it up if you want some.” Without waiting for an answer, she hurried into the kitchen, wiping her eyes, leaving the Doctor to sit alone. 

It was a long moment before the Doctor moved. With the sudden weight that had settled onto his shoulders, any motion at all felt like an unbearable effort. Clara gone? Clara dead? No. Not possible. He’d have known. He’d let Rose go, and remembered every second of it. Sometimes he wished he could forget it. Why this?

It wasn’t your fault, he reminded himself. Not then. Not directly. He wondered briefly how often his mind acted against him like this. 

He stared around at the comfortable living room, a setting that sharply contrasted the plot. The squat lamps, the covered couch, the flickering television screen. Everything was all so normal in a world that was anything but.

Hold on a minute. The Doctor sat up a little straighter, mind whirling backwards. Something was off, something wasn’t right, wasn’t normal-

Oh. The flickering television screen. Flickering. Why was it flickering? 

The Doctor almost ignored it - something so small, so unimportant, surely it was just coincidence. There must be a multitude of reasons for it to be happening.

Then again, he’d long said that coincidence should never be ignored, unless one is busy. And right at the moment, he badly wanted something to do, something to take his mind off what he’d just heard, even though he knew he really should focus on sorting out his mind… Wasn’t every scrap of hope worth pursuing?

With a sigh, the Doctor got to his feet, pulling out his sonic screwdriver. He gave the screen one short blast of energy, almost halfheartedly, and was surprised at the response. The sonic hummed slightly, as if recognizing something in the television. 

“What’s going on?” he muttered, adjusting the frequency. Something was nagging at him, as insistent as the buzzing of the screwdriver, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on either. 

Frowning, the Doctor flicked open the sonic and stared at it intently. By all accounts, there was nothing unusual about the TV set at all - nothing visible, at least. Nothing clear, nothing obvious. 

He turned away from the screen, shoving away the last remains of the hope that had flared within him. Although ever hopeful, ever optimistic, he had to admit that sometimes hope hurt more than despair. 

“Doctor!”

The Time Lord froze. That voice was one he'd nearly convinced himself he'd never hear again.

Slowly he turned around, looking back at the television. “Clara?”

She was there, on the screen, her eyes wide and desperate. “What’s wrong? Wake up!”

“I’m here, Clara, I’m here!” He ran back to the screen, grabbing it frantically. “Tell me how to help you.”

“Doctor, please!” No recognition showed in her eyes - clearly, the communication was one-way. Moments later, Clara’s face seemed to shrink, as if moving away from him, and soon the screen was black.

“No, wait...” The Doctor pounded on the display, now showing only static. “Clara!”

“Doctor, what is it?” Rose ran in from the kitchen, clutching a teapot. “Is she…” She stopped, as if bracing herself. “Are you forgetting again?”

“No, she was just here!” His movements slowed as he calmed, and he let go of the television. “She was just here… But I remember her, I remember everything you told me.” Whirling back to his feet, the Doctor stared at her insistently, pleading with her to believe him. “I’m not…”

Slowly she nodded. “Okay. I believe you. But how could she have got there?”

But the Doctor was already miles away. “So she’s not dead, then, that much’s for sure,” he muttered to himself, pacing a tight circle around the living room. “But where is she? And wake up, she told me to wake up. Why?”

“Because you’re sleeping?” Rose offered hesitantly. She wasn’t quite sure what to do - her Doctor, the one she knew best, had always included her in his reasonings, always helped her come to the same realizations he did. But this one talked more to himself than to anyone else, relied on himself rather than the help of others. She wondered what had happened to change him. 

“No, not sleeping, I'm clearly not sleeping.” He clutched his hair. “So why would she… oh.” Coming to an abrupt stop with the realization, the Doctor stared at Rose, looking at her but not seeing her. “Unless I'm dreaming.”

“Dreaming?” Rose let out a breath that was part gasp, part sob. “Doctor, you’ve been dreaming for months now. This is reality.” 

“No, no, that’s not what I mean.” Finally smiling, the Doctor turned to her, gesturing wildly. “This place, this entire universe. None of it’s real!”

Rose laughed, but her eyes showed only confusion. “What d’you mean, not real, we’ve all been living here, it's been months!”

“It all makes sense, don't you see?” His eyes were alight, back in his familiar role. “You said I've forgotten that she died, that I always forget, but I remember what you told me, and she's still here, I still see her.”

“But you still don't remember her dying.” It wasn't a question.

The Doctor paused briefly. “Well, no. But it’s the only explanation, isn’t it? If she is dead, then how can she have shown up on the screen?”

“Are you sure she was really there?” Rose asked hesitantly. “I mean, I didn’t see or hear her, and I was right in the kitchen…”

“I’ve never been more sure. Oh, I should have seen this,” he muttered, pounding his head. “Nasty, dusty Time Lord brain, I’ve seen things like this before, ages ago.” He waved a hand in the air, then shook his head. “No, no pixelation or motion blur, no distortion at all. I suppose not, I’d have seen it by now.” He frowned, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “And we’re not switching around… unless there’s some other universe that I don’t remember where Clara died…?”

“What?” Rose had gotten lost several ideas ago.

“No, that’s ridiculous, I’d know. But think about it,” he said suddenly, turning to Rose, “what happens when you’re dreaming and an alarm goes off in the morning?”

Rose raised an eyebrow. “You wake up?”

“Maybe,” the Doctor admitted. “But if not…”

“Oh! I see!” She pointed excitedly. “It slips itself into the dream somehow, in a way you’d expect it to, like a, I dunno, a siren or something. 

“Right,” the Doctor said approvingly. “But with a person, picture and sound, it’d be different. Maybe coming through onto something like-

“A television screen,” the Rose finished with him.

“Exactly.” Beaming, he nodded, waving an arm around the room. “A lie so outrageous you've got no choice but to believe it. All of us - John and Sherlock too, we’ve imagined this entire universe, the entire time, none of it’s been real! It’s not a parallel world, it’s a dream world, that’s what she’s trying to tell us!”

“So Clara must have woken up, then,” Rose guessed, now glancing at her TV suspiciously, wondering what else might come through. 

“When she went through the crack, she got out of this universe, she escaped,” he explained excitedly, “and that’s all we’ve got to do too.”

“Okay, but how?” she asked skeptically. “Easier said than done, I’d think. Unless the crack she went through is still open?”

The Doctor pulled out the sonic screwdriver and examined it. “No, I don’t think so. Whatever happened when she went through…” He shook his head. “We’re sealed in. That way, at least.”

“Alright. Then we’ll have to find a different way,” Rose said confidently, smiling up at him. He took her hand.

“That’s my girl. Come on, let’s go tell John and Sherlock.” He tugged her out of the living room, grinning. Laughing, Rose let herself be pulled along.

“Why are you so happy?” she asked. “Seems to me that wasn’t exactly good news.”

“Ah, but now we know. I can’t solve a problem unless I know what it is.”

“Know your enemy,” Rose added, nodding.

The Doctor beamed. “Exactly,” he said, opening the door to the garden. “Know your-”

His sentence was cut off by a gunshot. The pair took it all in a second: Sherlock recoiling, John holding the gun, both of their expressions. 

“...enemy,” he finished quietly. “Oh dear.”


	22. Real or Not Real

“John!” Sherlock cried, staggering back and staring at the small dark hole in his shoulder. 

“Stay back,” John warned them as Rose moved to help the fallen detective. “Don’t touch him.”

“What the bloody hell is going on, then?” she shouted, stating everyone’s thoughts admirably. 

“Unfortunate word choice,” muttered the Doctor, staring with wide eyes, struggling to understand, “but excellent question.”

John shook his head, a smile on his lips but a question in his eyes. “You don’t understand,” he said calmly. “None of you.”

“So explain, then!” the Doctor shouted desperately. “Explain, because I don’t know what is going on.” 

“None of it’s real,” John told them, looking rather like he was trying to convince himself. “Sherlock isn’t real, hasn’t been for years. It’s all been just a hallucination.”

“Exactly!” cried the Doctor, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “You’re absolutely right. So why-”

“Don’t you see?” John asked impatiently, speaking to the others but looking at Sherlock as though pleading with him to understand. “He’s the source of all this, he’s the reason all of this is happening. If he hadn’t thrown himself off that building-”

“What?” Rose exclaimed, looking from John to the Doctor in alarmed confusion. The Doctor motioned for her to be silent, watching John intently. 

“If he dies, if he’s gone,” explained John, still aiming the gun at Sherlock, “then I’ll know, if he comes back again. Nobody survives a bullet to the chest. Then I’ll know it’s not real. Then I can fix myself.”

“But I’m not dead,” Sherlock said from the ground, his voice tight. “You shot me in the arm. You’re a crack shot, John. If you really wanted me dead, I would be. So why aren’t I?”

John said nothing. His hands started to shake. 

“Because you know I'm real,” he told him, his gaze never once wavering. “You know, deep down, that Moriarty is nothing but a liar, and that I would never leave you. Not really. Not for any longer than I had to.”

“But…” He didn't believe it, couldn't believe it, and yet he wanted to, more than anything. “The Doctor said I was right, he agreed.” Any last doubts, anything left in the way…

“You said it's all a hallucination,” the Doctor put in. “That none of this is real. You meant Sherlock, but I meant this world. Not one thing since we stepped inside this dimension has been real.” 

“That includes whatever happened with Moriarty,” Sherlock added quietly. “Whatever he told you…”

Hesitating, John looked from the Doctor to Sherlock, still bleeding into the grass. “How do you know?” he asked uneasily.

“Clara,” the Time Lord replied simply. “I thought, for just a second, that she might be dead, and because of me, and that I had forgotten. But there's no way that's true. Never.”

“Sound familiar?” Sherlock's voice, though layered with pain, was soft and gentle. Rose, looking on, was quietly astonished to think of how much pain the man had to be in. But still, he managed to hold everything together for the sake of figuring this out.

“John,” said the Doctor quietly, “if you have any doubts about this, anything that doesn't add up, that doesn't feel right, anything at all…” He paused, locking eyes with John. “Put down the gun.”

Frozen in indecision for the longest moment in any of their lives, John held out the gun. Then, slowly, he released the handle, letting it fall to the ground with a gentle thud. “God, Sherlock, I'm so sorry.”

Sherlock smiled as John took one shaky step towards him, then another, until he collapsed into a run to land at Sherlock's side. “It's okay,” the detective told him. “I understand.”

It was that, Rose was certain, that made the entire event truly fine: he understood the motivation behind the action, understood every reason, every thought, and therefore didn't blame John in the least. And he claims not to understand people, she thought. Or maybe it's just John.

“We need a, a bandage,” John was saying, hands flying over the wound in Sherlock's shoulder. “I need to apply pressure-”

“No, I'm not sure you do,” Sherlock told him with a touch of asperity, glancing up at the Doctor. 

“What're you going on about, he's the doctor, let him do it!” Rose scolded him.

The Doctor, though, held her back. “He's right, Rose,” he told her gently. “This is a dream, remember? Can't hurt him here, not really. I think so, at least,” he added with a nervous glance at Sherlock, who nodded. “But just to be on the safe side, let's get out of here as soon as possible.”

John shot him a slightly incredulous glance, but helped Sherlock to his feet by his good arm, fully conscious that even a dream wound had to hurt. Sherlock staggered over to lean against the fence, trampling a few more flowers in the process.

“Well, right,” Rose said with a hesitant smile, still concerned for Sherlock. “But how?”

“You've got to want to,” he said simply, beaming. Rose and John stared at him in uncomprehending disbelief. “Well, it's a bit more complicated than that.”

“Think logically,” Sherlock put in, taking over the explanation. “You wake up from a dream when you realize you're in one.”

“Then we should all be waking up, shouldn't we?” John asked, doubtful. “If we know it's all fake now…?”

“There's a difference between knowing and accepting,” the Doctor told him with a glance at Rose. “This is much more complicated than a regular dream, whatever it is.”

“It's not just a dream, it's a perfect world,” added Sherlock. “An Elysium, so to speak. This is our dream life, in every sense.”

“But how did they know?” Rose shook her head, still lost. “I mean, if this is our dreams, I haven't…” She trailed off, blushing slightly. 

“Hypnosis,” suggested the Doctor, clearly getting into the realm of guesswork. “The Master specializes in mind control, especially with sound. It's what drove him mad in the first place.”

John snorted. “That explains more than it doesn't. But how'd he get into our heads?”

“Through the TARDIS.” Sherlock looked impatiently at the Doctor's incredulous stare. “Oh, honestly, it's the only explanation. A sentient machine, in the possession of two of the greatest criminal minds ever, known for manipulation and mind control?” He sniffed. “Obvious.”

“You did plug me into that…” John paused, stumbling over the unfamiliar technology. “Telepathic goop?”

“The telepathic circuit, of course!” the Doctor exclaimed, pounding his forehead. “That'd explain John, and Clara too. Rose, you've carried the heart of the TARDIS inside you, no wonder she knows you. And I've been around forever, no secrets here.”

“But what about Sherlock?” John asked, glancing over at his friend with slightly suspicious concern. “He's never been in it, never even seen it!”

“Maybe it has a looser hold on me,” said Sherlock calmly, his expression unreadable. “Extrapolated from John's thoughts and Moriarty's knowledge. After all,” he added with a razor-sharp smile, “I haven't had any delusions.”

“That we know of, anyway,” said the Doctor quietly, looking pensively at the detective. 

Silence fell. John, glancing cautiously at Sherlock, couldn't help but wonder: If this wasn't Sherlock's dream world, what was? What would he change?

“Well, I suppose how they're doing it doesn't really matter,” Rose said brightly, doing her best to smile. “We've just got to get out.”

“Exactly,” the Doctor said, taking her hand and squeezing it warmly. “So, first thing's first-”

Sherlock finished the sentence for him. “Find the trap.”


	23. See You

“Trap?” John asked, looking from Sherlock to the Doctor and back. “I thought this whole place was the trap.”

“Bait might be a better word,” said the Doctor, rubbing his hands together. “Whatever's keeping you here, stopping you from truly wanting to leave. Find it, recognize it, accept it, and let it go.”

“Anachronisms, inconsistencies,” Sherlock added. “Anything that doesn't ring true in your core.”

“Trust nothing you see, or hear, or feel. Look around you. Examine everything.”

Rose raised an eyebrow, but nodded and closed her eyes, taking his words on blind faith. John, reluctantly, followed suit.

“Open your mind,” the Doctor instructed, shutting his eyes as well. “Study everything that comes into your head. We've all gotten used to these little lives we've built for ourselves, imagined for ourselves. Step outside them, forget them: they were never here. When all that's gone, what's left?”

“A drug addiction,” John snapped, his eyes flying open. “And a life that I don't believe is real. That's what's left. If you think I'll go back to that just because you miss your dead friend-”

“There!” Sherlock cut in. “Right there. That fear, that's what is holding you back, John. You have to trust me.”

John looked at him for a long moment, his anger disappearing. “But I don't,” he said quietly. “I don't trust you at all, Sherlock.” He grinned slightly, wryly. “There's an inconsistency if I ever saw one.” 

He and Sherlock traded a long glance, then Sherlock nodded. John smiled. “I missed you, Sherlock.”

And then, between one blink and the next, he was gone.

Rose, who had been watching, started violently, glancing around. “He's gone, then?” she asked. “He just… vanished. Just like that.”

“He made it out,” said the Doctor with quiet excitement. “One down, three to go.” He looked to Sherlock next. “I strongly suspect your bait is already gone, so you'll be off?”

“I'll wait,” Sherlock told him with a small, forced smile. “To make sure everyone gets on their way.” He glanced at Rose. “You understand, I'm sure.”

“The longer you wait, the closer you'll come to bleeding out,” the Doctor warned him. “If you're unconscious, one of us will have to stay back for you.”

“I don't think that'll be a problem.” Clearly, Sherlock would not be moved. The Doctor, giving up, moved to Rose.

“Rose, I know this'll be hard for you, probably the hardest of anyone. You've got a whole life built here, a career, a house-”

“Forget it.” Rose shook her head, smiling. “I'll leave it in an instant, you know I will. Traveling with you again, in the TARDIS… If you'll let me, anyway,” she added with a flicker of doubt.

“Of course, don't even think it.” He beamed. “Rose Tyler and the Doctor, in the TARDIS, off to see the universe. That's how it's supposed to be.”

“Right then.” With a deep breath, she closed her eyes. All of them waited for a few minutes. Sherlock's eyes were focused intensely on Rose.

Finally, Rose cracked open an eye. “What am I doing wrong?”

“Did you find your bait?” the Doctor asked with concern, reaching in his jacket pocket for his sonic screwdriver. “You've got to find that, otherwise-”

“No, there's nothing!” she cried, eyes flying open. “Doctor, I swear, this universe doesn't mean a thing to me! You think I haven't been dreaming of this day ever since I landed here? Mum, Dad, they told me to forget it but I never could, not ever. I'd do anything for you.” She stared up at him, wide blue eyes begging him to understand. “Why can't I get out of this dream?”

“Because you're part of it.” Sherlock, gritting his teeth with the pain in his arm, pushed himself off the fence to stand between them. Rose and the Doctor stared at him with equal astonishment and disbelief.

“What do you mean?”

“You said it yourself, Doctor,” he said, addressing the Time Lord directly. “Not one thing since we stepped in this dimension has been real.” He glanced over at Rose, without any emotion in his eyes. “That includes her.”

“But I-" Rose fell silent as Sherlock glanced at her disdainfully, then fixed his gaze back on the Doctor, dismissing her. Hurt and bewildered, she fell back, but the Doctor stood his ground.

“Don't be ridiculous, she's been living here!” he said, trying to stay calm. “I watched her get sucked into a parallel universe, I know everything she's saying is true-”

“But this isn't a parallel universe, is it?” Sherlock asked flatly. “You know nothing for sure. ‘Trust nothing you see, or hear, or feel’,” he quoted. “I suppose that doesn't apply to you? You think you have such control over your emotions?” He paused, letting it sink in. “What makes what you feel any different?”

The Doctor's gaze flicked to Rose, questioning. “I don't know what he's talking about,” she said immediately, obviously in earnest. “I remember everything, couldn't forget if I tried. How can I not be real? Wouldn't I know?”

“And isn't that exactly what she'd say if she was a dream?” Sherlock persisted, allowing the Doctor no room to escape. “Clara needs you, Doctor. John and I likely will too, to get home, not to mention with whatever the Master and Moriarty are up to. You owe the world, the real world, at least that much.”

“I owe them nothing!” he roared. “You want to speak of debts, I'm the one who come here to find you because John begged. You're clever enough, you sort it all out. If there's anyone I owe anything to, it's her.”

“You know that isn't true.” Sherlock's calmness was beyond infuriating. “Besides, you could owe Rose the world, but nothing you do with her-” He nodded to Rose, standing beside the man she loved. “-will do anything for your debt. This isn't really her.”

The Time Lord rounded on him.

“How can you just stand there and say that? Doesn't this mean anything to you? A living, breathing person, a person that I-” He stopped. “That I care about, that was your friend, how can you say she doesn't exist and not feel a thing?”

“Doctor, stop it, please!” Rose cried, putting a hand on his chest. “You're not helping anything!”

“I'm not saying she doesn't exist,” Sherlock explained with a touch of impatience, ignoring her outburst. “It's perfectly possible that Rose Tyler is off living a life somewhere. But this is not living, not breathing, and is not a person.” He shrugged. “Why waste the emotion?”

“Emotion is never a waste,” the Doctor informed him, icy cold now. “Especially not when it comes to her.”

“Don't take your anger out on me, I'm not what it's directed at,” replied the detective.

The Doctor raised an eyebrow. “No? Tell me, then, who do you think I'm angry with?”

“Yourself,” Sherlock told him flatly, “because you know I'm right but can't bring yourself to believe it. Check your sonic,” he added before the Doctor could get a word in. 

“What for?”

Sherlock closed his eyes, sighing in frustration. Rose noticed now that he was dreadfully pale - blood loss was kicking in. “Do it.”

Muttering darkly to himself, the Time Lord reached into his jacket and found his screwdriver half out of the pocket. “What were you going to do with that?” Sherlock asked quietly. “Scan her? Why?”

The Doctor had no answer. With a sigh, Sherlock turned away, lowering himself onto the ground to sit. Rose, her eyes fixed on his face, saw the doubt creeping in and began to panic.

“Please, Doctor, you know it's not true!” she cried, taking his hands. “The time we've spent, these months, seeing you again when I never thought I would, that's real, that's no dream, I swear it.”

Still the Doctor was silent. He squeezed her hands, but wasn't quite willing to meet her desperate gaze. Swallowing hard, doing her best to smile, Rose tried again.

“Remember, the first night you were here?” she asked, laying a hand on his cheek. “I couldn't sleep, so I came and found you on the couch.”

“I remember.”

“Do you remember what you said to me?” 

“I probably said more than one thing,” he hedged, but Rose was having none of it.

“When you thought I was asleep.” She grinned hopefully. “I always take forever to go to sleep, you know that. Or at least you did.” Looking at his downturned face, she added, “Maybe that's why you said it.”

Finally the Doctor looked up, his eyes meeting hers. A pair of eyes that, only months ago, he'd never thought he'd see again outside his dreams. Up til now, he'd believed he was wrong.

“You told me you loved me,” she whispered. “Did you mean it?”

“I've never meant something more,” he told her solemnly, kissing their entwined fingers.

Rose nodded slowly. “Then, Doctor, if you really do love me…”

“Yes?”

“Don't disappear again.” Her voice broke, and the Doctor saw that she was crying. “I watched you vanish once, right in front of my eyes, and I can't do it again.”

“Doctor, she's not real,” Sherlock reminded him, groaning. “She won't feel it. As soon as we both make it out, she'll disappear. She won't feel a thing.”

“But I will,” the Doctor said quietly. “I'll feel all of it, forever.” He straightened his shoulders, looking down at Rose. “Sherlock, you should go.”

“Not until you-”

“You'll pass out if you stay here any longer. I do have a medical degree, and even if I didn't, you should see yourself. You won't be able to leave if you're unconscious, now go.”

Sherlock looked at him, gaze level but hands shaking. His shoulder was soaked with blood, and he lacked the energy to argue. “Will you be coming?”

Silence. The Doctor took Rose's hand, then met his eyes and an understanding passed between the two. Conscious that nothing more he had to say would change the Time Lord's mind, Sherlock closed his eyes, letting go of this world. 

See you soon, John. As he felt reality start to slip away, he struggled against the blood loss fatigue to open his eyes. He was left with one hazy image: the Doctor holding Rose tightly in his arms, her head on his shoulder, locked in a quiet embrace.


	24. Good Morning

Sherlock woke with a start, his mind scrambling to regain its bearings. What… Where… His vision was blurred, and he struggled to sit up.

“Sherlock! Thank God!”

Oh. Hello, John. 

A face swam into clarity - John Watson, staring down at him with equal relief and concern. Sherlock smiled faintly up at him, pleased to see he was alright.

“We didn't think you'd ever wake up. Couldn't figure out what happened. Clara!”

“Yeah, I heard,” she called. “What about the Doctor? Any changes?”

“Nothing yet,” John answered, glancing behind him. As his memories returned, Sherlock grabbed immediately for his shoulder. He was relieved, although not overly surprised, to find it completely whole, though he suspected he'd have phantom pains for quite some time. 

With this processed, Sherlock moved on to the rest of his situation. As feeling returned to his legs, he discovered he was lying on the floor, and looked around at his surroundings for the first time.

“What…”

“Yeah, it's bigger on the inside,” John told him, helping him to his feet. “Transdimensional engineering or something, I dunno, ask the Doctor. When he wakes up, at least,” he added with another worried glance. Sherlock, however, was still entranced.

He looked around slowly, taking in the walls, the console, the round things. The Doctor's unconscious body on the floor. “Bigger on the inside?”

“Oh, right, you've never seen the outside. I'll explain later, then.”

“So what happened?” Clara asked curiously. She was standing at the console, Sherlock now saw, pushing buttons seemingly at random. “I mean, I sort of got out accidentally. John's been explaining a bit, but we didn't know what happened to either of you. He thought you'd follow right off. What kept you?”

“The Doctor,” he explained distractedly, still staring around. What a mind palace this place would make. “He won't leave without Rose. She's part of the dream, has been all along, but he won't see it.”

Clara and John exchanged a glance. “We wondered,” she said sadly. “When she wasn't here… I don't know.” She shook her head. “Everything seems a lot more obvious now.”

“The effects are gone,” Sherlock explained, “now that you're out. They haven't got control anymore.”

“I'm not so sure about that,” Clara told him with a grim smile. “You ought to see what's outside.”

Sherlock's first instinct was to go to the small wooden doors and peer out, but something held him back. “Why, what's outside?”

“Moriarty and the Master and a whole lab, apparently,” said John, leaning up against a railing. “Machines and wires, the works.”

“They had the TARDIS all hooked in, too,” Clara added, “but I took care of it.”

“How?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. But Clara only grinned.

“Dangerously.” Then her expression softened, becoming more concerned. “But the Doctor, is he coming?”

Sherlock could only shake his head. “I don't know,” he said honestly. 

“Okay.” Clara nodded, processing this. “Okay. So now what?”

“We go on without him,” John said resolutely. “Figure out what they're doing, how to get home. Just in case he doesn't come. Clara, do you know how this thing works?” he asked, gesturing around at the TARDIS.

“Not hardly. I haven't been traveling with him very long,” she explained apologetically. “I know there's a way to get these monitors to show you what's outside, I've seen him do it, but…” She shrugged. “She's not being very helpful.”

“She?” Sherlock looked up at her from his inspection of the console, eyebrow raised.

“The TARDIS.” It was clear that this should have been obvious. “She and I don't get on too well.”

“Right.” John and Sherlock exchanged glances, John suppressing a chuckle.

“I think she's staying quiet now,” Clara continued, oblivious to their amusement. “I'm sure they've got all kinds of sensors out there. They knew right away when I woke up.”

“So why haven't they come knocking?” Sherlock asked, tapping a monitor experimentally. 

“Good question.” John walked over to the door and out his ear up to it. “I don't hear much of anything-”

“Good morning, John,” a voice said conversationally, making John jump back. “Nice to see you've woken up. And Sherlock, too! I hope you had sweet dreams.”

“Moriarty,” Sherlock murmured, motioning for the others to stay quiet. “And I assume the Master can't be far behind?”

“Of course not.” They could almost hear the Time Lord's grin. “Glad to have you with us again.”

“The pleasure is all ours, believe me.”

“Did you have fun?” Moriarty inquired. “A little introspection? Learn something, perhaps? I know we did.”

“Oh, yeah, fun, that's what I'd call it,” John muttered, ignoring Sherlock's pointed glance. “Definitely fun.”

“I didn't think it was that bad,” Clara objected. “I didn't hate it.”

“Well, you missed the worst bit,” John said under his breath, not really caring whether she heard.

“Ah, now, John, that's not very nice,” the Master admonished him. “I enjoyed it immensely.”

“Oh yes,” Moriarty chimed in. “Funniest thing I've seen all week, and that's compared to the American presidential race.”

“Alright, you've made your point,” Sherlock said, distinctly bored. “Can we move on to something of substance?”

“Yeah, enough banter,” Clara added, glancing briefly at Sherlock for approval. She propped her hands on her hips, then felt silly: was she posing for the door?

“Alright, on to business, then,” the Master said amicably. “You've given us everything we need to perfect my plan: fine-tuning on the hypnosis, information on your characters, and my knowledge of your TARDIS is better than ever. All we hoped for, and more. Thanks to you, I'll be unbeatable.”

“Now that you've all made it out of our little puzzle,” Moriarty added, “we really don't need you any longer. We never intended to keep you, after all. Just observe. You can go back to your ordinary little lives.”

John and Clara traded hopeful looks, but Sherlock was not so optimistic. 

“But you can't let us go just yet.”

“Of course not.” The Master's voice left the door, and they began to hear footsteps: presumably, he was circling the TARDIS. The differing dimensions, however, distorted the sound until it seemed to come from all around them. “You see, you've still got one little thing we need.”

Before any of them could answer, a thud echoed through the darkened TARDIS, like a massive switch being thrown. Seconds later, the lights all around the room flickered on as the time machine hummed to life. All sounds and voices from outside disappeared, replaced by one only.

“You need me.”

Clara, John, and Sherlock all turned around at the sound of this fourth voice and saw the Doctor, leaning on the TARDIS console and twirling a fez on the end of his screwdriver. “Hello, boys and girls.” He grinned. “Miss me?”


	25. Good Plan

“Doctor!” Clara cried, starting towards him, but he held up a warning hand. Quickly, he pressed a few keys on the console. The TARDIS hummed happily under his touch.

“Soundproofed,” he explained, patting the console fondly. “They can't hear us, we can't hear them. Much nicer this way.” He grinned. “Something this interesting and it isn't even a Saturday. Must be my birthday, I do lose track of those.”

Clara marched up to him and stuck a finger in his chest. “Don't you ever scare me like that again,” she told him sternly. “We didn't know what happened, didn't even know if you were coming back, and you waltz in here like it's all some big joke-”

“You're one to talk,” he retorted. “Disappearing through a crack in the universe?”

“I only did what you would do.”

At her impudent grin, the Doctor beamed. “Oh, come here.” He picked her up in a massive bear hug, twirling her around the room, both breathless with laughter. “Good to see you.” He set her down with one last hug, though she noticed he let go rather sooner than normal. “John, Sherlock, how are you?”

“Could be worse,” John said with a shrug, though he was, in truth, very relieved to have the Time Lord on their side again. “Er… How're you?”

“Perfectly fine. Never better. Right then,” he continued, spinning away from Clara and John's concerned glances, “let's get these monitors on, have a look at what's out there.” He punched a few buttons, then frowned. “Why are the karaoke bar lights on?”

Clara had the grace to look ashamed, remembering her earlier button-pushing spree. John glanced at Sherlock, who mouthed Karaoke bar? He could only shrug. With a machine this fantastical, he wasn't a bit surprised.

A light blinked on the screen as the Doctor was searching, and he bent forward, frowning. “Oh. They’ve ground-locked up. That’s not very polite.”

“Ground-locked, what’s that?” Clara asked, eager to divert his attention away. 

“What it sounds like, basically,” he explained, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “A force-field, essentially. Just strong enough to keep us on the ground. It’s a pretty good one, really. Wonder how long that took to make.”

“But you can fix it, can’t you?” John confirmed. After all they’d gotten out of, this seemed like an idiotic thing to get caught by.

“Oh, yeah,” the Doctor assured him, tapping keys. “Big ol’ radiation blast, ought to clear it out and send us on our way. Be a hell of a bumpy ride, though. And it’ll take a few minutes.”

“Let’s check up on our friends, then,” Sherlock suggested, nodding to the monitors. “Be sure they’re still busy.”

“Of course.” A moment later, though, the Doctor had found the correct button, which turned out to be a lever, and had the screens on. Soon they were all staring out into the bustling laboratory Clara had seen not long before. 

The Master and Moriarty cut a prominent hole in the flow of the room, their dark suits a sharp contrast against the sterile white. They were barking orders at flustered attendants.

“Blimey,” John muttered, “they do not look happy.”

“No, they really don’t,” the Doctor agreed blithely, twiddling a knob on the console. “I wonder why.” 

Slowly, the sound from the outer room increased until the TARDIS occupants could make out the hurried conversations. 

“-if that radiation needle goes above 240, it’s all our heads on the line. Watch it constantly. Go!” The Master dismissed the lab tech with a taut gesture, then turned to Moriarty. “Damn them all to hell. If the Doctor’s really woken up-”

“What else can it mean?” Moriarty gestured to a screen they couldn’t see. “We’ve had flares all afternoon, but nothing like this. This much TARDIS activity has to be him.”

“You’re certain even your precious Sherlock couldn’t have managed it?”

With a shrug, Moriarty said, “He hasn’t so far.”

“How rude,” Sherlock commented dryly, eyes fixed on the screen. “It’s only been a few minutes.” John snickered. 

The Doctor glanced over at him, eyebrow raised. “Bet you a lesson and two space squid you can't do it.”

Before Sherlock could respond to this unusual offer, Clara hushed them, attention on the screen. All of them, the Doctor especially, were delighted to observe without being observed.

The Master swore again. “This is his fault, you know,” he told the consulting criminal. “I’m sure of it. He was ages coming back, what else was he doing but telling the Doctor everything-”

“If you’d managed to get him into the TARDIS, as I suggested, it wouldn’t have been an issue,” Moriarty retorted. “But it doesn’t matter now. We need to play it like he is awake.”

The Doctor’s mouth twitched, fighting back amusement. “Good move.”

“If he is awake,” the Master said, staring off at something far in the distance, “then he’s probably watching us right now.” He turned towards the TARDIS, looking directly at them. “Am I right?”

With a chuckle, the Doctor flipped on the outside sound. “Guilty. Hello. I hope I didn’t bungle up your plans too badly.” He grinned at his own jest.

“Could have been better,” Moriarty admitted with a razor-sharp smile, “but could have been a lot worse.”

“Actually, it’s hardly even a problem,” the Master told them with an effusive smile. “Just a tiny wrinkle in the fabric of my scheme.”

“Didn’t sound like it was so tiny when he was yelling before,” John commented with a snort. Sherlock smiled at him.

“Very true.” He glanced up at the monitor. “Maybe you want to explain?”

“With pleasure.” The Master grinned, pleased in spite of himself to be able to show off a bit. “See, while you all were off having your little nap, Jimmy here and I have been busy.” Moriarty barely suppressed an eye roll. Oblivious, the Master went on. “Things are progressing quite nicely. 

“In just a few days, I expect I’ll be elected Prime Minister.” He tossed them a rakish wink. “Exciting, isn’t it? I expect a national broadcast, of course, and by then, any who haven’t already succumbed to my drumbeat, will. We had plenty of time to perfect the suggestion technique on you all while you were… away.”

“And what about your little assistant?” Sherlock asked pointedly.

Moriarty shrugged off the jibe. “I fade back into the shadows,” he answered smoothly. “I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

“Work?” John glanced at Sherlock, then back at the master criminal. “What sort of work?”

“Getting ready for you, of course.” Moriarty blinked innocently up at him. “Wouldn’t do to meet you like this, I’ve got so much new information to incorporate. I’ll have to prepare a reception - we are British, after all. Have to do things properly.” His smile was warm, but his eyes were flat and dead.

“Doesn’t that just burn you?” Sherlock asked him with a slight smile - the only hint of the joke Moriarty did not yet understand. “Being tossed aside, working only from the sidelines? He’s going to be Prime Minister, for God’s sake, and you get… what? A pat on the back?”

“A souvenir key chain?” Clara suggested. Moriarty’s lip curled, ignoring her comment.

“You know as well as I do, Sherlock, that it’s much more effective to pull strings from behind the scenes and leave the public face up to someone else. Or is there another reason you let Detective Inspector Lestrade take the credit for all your best cases?”

Sherlock said nothing, but his face tightened. As if sensing the source of his discomfort, Moriarty said, “It’s when you make a name for yourself, Sherlock. When you get all famous and well-known, people start to notice you. And that’s when things get painful. It’s a problem, Sherlock.”

“I don’t doubt it,” the detective answered coldly. By the slight widening in Moriarty’s eyes, they all saw that he knew he’d touched a nerve. John jumped in to steer the conversation away, knowing exactly where all of this was stemming from. 

“So answer me something,” he said, ignoring the glances of the others. “How did you start all of this? I mean, if this was all a dream, the whole time, what about the very beginning? Because I watched him disappear,” he told them, pointing to Sherlock though he knew neither the Master nor Moriarty could see him. His voice was growing more heated. “I watched him vanish through a crack in space, and all of my friends didn’t remember him. And that was in this world, the real world.” His eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Unless we haven’t woken up yet?”

“Dr. Watson, you’re overthinking things again,” Moriarty told him with no little amusement. “Nothing so impressive. We simply suggested to you what might have happened.”

John glanced around at his friends. “Suggested,” he repeated flatly. “You suggested that I watch my best friend disappear. Suggested that none of his friends remember him. Suggested that my own wife doesn’t know who I am!”

“After the fact, yes,” the Master said simply. “There’s nothing people trust more than their own memories, and that’s really very foolish of them. We kidnapped Sherlock in that alley, just provided enough elements of our own to make it easier later. Flashing lights, a soundtrack, that sort of thing. Primed the area with just enough vortex energy to attract you, Doctor. Then we just brought Sherlock into our lab and waited for you lot to show up. ”

“As for your friends, we just dialed up the strength of the hypnosis,” Moriarty added with a smile. “Recommended Mary take a spontaneous and secret vacation. As for the rest, well, they may have known who Sherlock was, but we suggested that it might be a bad idea to mention him to you, seeing how he’d been shot and all. You know, in that alley?” He chuckled. “It wasn’t terribly surprising to any of them, I suppose. People are so malleable.”

“That's cruel,” Clara said angrily. She could see John was deeply shaken by this news, though he hid it well. “Messing with people's heads like that, no one should have that power. How do you live with yourselves?”

“The rewards are well worth the small setbacks, I assure you,” Moriarty told her. With a grin, the Master added, “I haven't been losing any sleep.”

“Nice, good plan,” the Doctor told the schemers, pushing a few buttons on the console. “Bit sinister, a tad ominous, but on the whole, very good. Except you’ve factored without one very important thing.”

The Master raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure you’re going to tell me all about it.” 

“Absolutely.” The Doctor grinned over at Sherlock, wrapping his long fingers around a lever. “See, you’ve taken two of the greatest minds in the universe and trapped them together in a tiny little box in your lab.”

“I don’t see the problem,” answered the Master with a puzzled smile.

“No, you wouldn’t, you villain types never do,” the Doctor replied distractedly, punching buttons. In an undertone, he muttered to Sherlock, “Ground-locked override in twenty.” 

Sherlock nodded. He tapped a button and a glowing countdown appeared on the screen. The Doctor shot him an irritated glance.

“The problem is,” he said louder, “that this tiny little box happens to be the greatest box in the universe. Nobody knows everything she does, not even me, and certainly not either of you. But you know what the best bit is?” He winked at Clara as the countdown ticked to zero. “It’s a mobile phone. Everybody hold on!” he yelled, pulling the lever. 

Instantly, the entire room shook, sending them all reeling. For a moment, the engines churned angrily, like a car revving its wheels. Then, with a lurch and a roar, the center console slowly started to move up and down. The Doctor whooped, and all of them were grinning as the TARDIS soared out of the laboratory and into the freedom of open space.


	26. Now What?

“Okay, so now what?” Clara asked, leaning on a railing. They’d gotten away from the Master’s laboratory, maybe not easily, but they’d managed. Though she was relieved, she sensed that no one, herself included, was quite finished with the day’s adventure. 

“We finish it off, of course,” John told her determinedly, smoothing down his shirtfront, wrinkled in their wild ride. The TARDIS was flying smoothly now, humming contentedly. “I'm not letting that happen to anyone else. If they’ve really hypnotized all of Britain...”

“They have, trust me,” the Doctor assured him, still hovering around the console and trying to keep Sherlock away. “They’d have gotten you too if you’d been around. Dream world might have done us a favor - oi! I can manage, thanks,” he told Sherlock, swatting his curious hands away. 

Clara watched in amusement. “Didn’t you tell me once the TARDIS is meant to be flown by six people? Maybe it'd be good to let him have a go. If you taught me, you can teach him.”

“I've been flying this by myself for centuries,” the Time Lord grumbled, “I can do it.”

“He's like a jealous boyfriend,” John said with a snort. “Can't let anyone else near her.” 

Laughing, Clara had to admit he was fairly accurate. “He strokes bits of it,” she confided with a grin, “all the time. They've got their own special relationship.”

“I heard that,” the Doctor called, glancing uncomfortably at Sherlock, who was watching his every move with curious intensity. “Could you… step back?”

Sherlock regarded him coolly. “I believe there is hardly anything that cannot be learned through observation. This seems to be a very useful skill.”

“Only if you've got a TARDIS,” he reminded him, “and this one's mine.”

Clara giggled to see the Doctor so wrong-footed. Deciding to save him, she said, “So, where are we going? We don't where they're, I dunno, broadcasting the signal from, do we? And we just left the lab, so if it’s there...”

“We don't know,” John answered, glancing at the Doctor, “but I bet he's got a way to find out.”

“Of course,” the Time Lord replied primly, pleased to be the one who knew things again. “See, a signal that powerful and far-reaching is going to make some waves, you might say. I set up a basic scan of this time for any dimensional disturbances, and we locked onto a big one a few minutes back. There's only a few things in the universe that can make waves that big, and none of them are in that lab. Should be landing any minute.”

“And from there?” John wanted to know. “Destroy the thing?”

“At least block the signal somehow,” added Sherlock, frowning slightly. “Shut it down, and reverse it if we can. The sooner the people are out of that man's control, the better.”

“About that,” Clara said suddenly, “all those people… They're not all in dream worlds too, are they? I mean, not that it much matters,” she continued hastily when the others looked at her, “but if everyone in the whole of England's got to go through what we did…”

The Doctor shook his head. “High unlikely,” he told her. “As near as I can figure, hypnosis of that complexity needs the TARDIS's help, to act as sort of a filter, pulling out what's important from your memories. Putting every person in the country through that?” He shrugged. “It's possible, but it'd take an insane amount of work. You'd need a whole army of Masters.”

“Plus, he doesn't need to get that deep into everybody's head,” John added reasonably. “He just needs them to vote for him.”

“Exactly.” The TARDIS dinged, drawing a delighted smile from the Doctor. “Here we are!”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. He seemed to be doing that a lot recently. “And where is here?”

“No idea.” The Doctor and Clara shared a grin - plainly, this was more what they were used to. “Care to do the honors?” He gestured to the door. Somewhat apprehensive, he pushed open the wooden doors and stepped outside. 

“Ah. We have moved,” he said, looking around at the busy street corner they’d landed on. “I did wonder if-” He glanced back towards the door and froze. John, just behind him in the doorway, grinned at his surprise.

“I told you it was bigger on the inside,” he said, enjoying his friend's rare astonishment. “What'd you think I meant?” 

“I don't- That's not-” Abruptly, Sherlock went silent, processing. Recognizing the look on his face, John simply stood and waited, knowing Sherlock would be done in his own time only.

The Doctor, however, knew no such thing. “Can we move along?” the Time Lord called from inside the deceptively small police box. “We have got a signal to block, you know.”

After hesitating a moment more, Sherlock shook his head briskly. “Er… right. Sorry. Lead on.”

“Thank you.” The Doctor stepped out of the TARDIS, followed closely by Clara. “While you lot were busy gabbing away, I linked the TARDIS scanner into the sonic screwdriver.” He pulled out said screwdriver and flipped it into the air. “With this, we should be able to track this signal to its source.”

“Great,” Clara said brightly, her short hair bouncing. “Let’s go, then.” Snatching the screwdriver from an indignant Doctor, she led the way down the street, dodging passersby as she follow the sonic’s subtle lead. The rest trooped after her. 

The trail, such as it was, led them down several streets, all plastered with white signs bearing in thick black letters “VOTE SAXON.” John in particular seemed to take offense at these posters. 

“How haven’t I seen these?” he kept asking as they walked. “They’re everywhere, all over London. We are back in London, aren’t we?”

“Of course we’re back in London,” the Doctor said. “We never left, not really.”

“And you were in Afghanistan while all this was going on,” Sherlock reminded him. “It’s 2007 here. Before we ever met.”

“But then we could meet ourselves, couldn’t we? If we were around long enough?” John glanced over at the Doctor curiously, but he only shook his head.

“Big, nasty things happen to people who mess with their own timelines. Best not,” he told him, trotting along. “But I’m starting to get the feeling I’ve been here before…” He trailed off, brow furrowed, clearly trying to remember. “Not sure yet. Regenerations always do a number on the memory. I’ll let you know.”

“Here we are!” Clara announced as they rounded a corner. “This is where the trail ends.”

The crew ground to a sudden halt, looking around for anything unusual. “It’s an empty street,” said John, putting voice to what they were all thinking. “Just a street.” He stared suspiciously at the four VOTE SAXON posters hung up on the brick.

“Are you sure this is right?” the Doctor asked skeptically, glancing around.

“Check it yourself, if you don’t believe me,” said Clara, irritable at his doubt. She tossed him the screwdriver and he snatched it out of the air, examining it closely. 

“Yes, alright. Sorry,” he added at her aggrieved look. “According to this, our disturbance should be right in front of us.”

He pointed down the street, right as three people fell out of the sky.


	27. Hellos and Goodbyes

Immediately, the Doctor seized Clara and John by the collars, towing them back around the corner. “Stay out of sight,” he hissed.

“But- They just appeared, look!” Clara craned her neck to see the trio - two men and a woman. Both men wore impressively long coats. “The sky sort of bent, and there they are!” She watched as they stretched, joints cracking.

“Time travel without a capsule,” one man was saying, “that’s a killer.”

“John, Sherlock, back to the TARDIS,” the Doctor told them urgently, trying to hurry them along with his hands. “Clara, I mean it. We can’t be seen, now go!”

“What about the signal?” John asked indignantly, half-jogging back towards the time machine. “I thought you said-”

“False alarm. Knackered vortex manipulator, messy as it is, it’ll do it every time, of course!” He pounded himself on the head. “I knew this all seemed familiar.”

“I take it you’ve been here before.” Sherlock had, as usual, put the pieces together first. “And they’ll sort this all out?”

“Eventually,” the Doctor said with a shrug. “It’ll be messy, but they’ll manage it. Nothing we can do to help.”

“Nothing?” Clara exclaimed. “But - wait.” She stopped in her tracks, turning around to look at the Doctor. He glanced nervously over his shoulder. “Was that you?”

“Keep going!” he ordered, seizing her arm and dragging her along. “We’re talking world-destroying paradox here if I run into him.”

“So it is you!” She allowed herself to be pulled down the street, eyes and smile wide. “Which one, the one in the coat with the fancy little thing in his hand? The handsome one?”

“Probably, maybe. Here’s the TARDIS” He paused at the door and glanced back at her. “Handsome?”

She raised an eyebrow, a challenge in her smile. “I’m not blind,” she told him pertly. “Although the skinny one with the pointy hair was nice too.”

“Oh, that’s-” Stopping in the middle of both step and sentence, the Doctor stared at her, frowning. “Hold on, you think-”

“Coming, Doctor?” Sherlock called from inside the TARDIS, effectively cutting off the Time Lord’s protests. “Wouldn’t want your timeline to cross.”

“Yes, alright,” he said irritably, stepping into the police box. “Let’s get you two home.”

“But, hang on, what about that signal?” protested John, glancing from Sherlock to the Doctor and back. “That plan, with the Master taking over the whole city, you just going to let that happen?”

The Doctor was already at the controls, preparing for flight. “Of course not. I’m already taking care of it.”

“Really?” John looked around, half expecting to see some futuristic machine he’d overlooked before. Something that would at least prove progress was being made. “How? With the TARDIS?”

“He means him from another time,” Clara explained - the Doctor certainly wasn’t going to. “He’s one of the people back in that street, he just had a different face.”

“A different- Hold on.” John shook his head, a baffled grin on his face that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Someone mind telling me what the hell is going on?” 

“What do you call it?” Sherlock asked the Doctor, his gaze level and measured. “Rebirth? Metamorphosis? There must be a name, there always is.” 

“Regeneration,” the Time Lord told him, still focused on his controls. “A little trick my people picked up. Overexposure to the time vortex, over centuries of time.”

“Regeneration,” repeated John, no less confused. “And that means what?”

The Doctor motioned to Sherlock. “I’m sure you’ve figured it out, you explain.”

“I don’t know the particulars, of course, but I surmise that when a Time Lord experiences significant physical stress, their entire body is recreated into a new one, presumably with a new personality and less than stellar memories.” He smiled slightly. “Instead of dying, you are reborn.”

“I’m the eleventh,” the Doctor added, finally turning away from the controls. “The eleventh regeneration, the eleventh Doctor. The one out there, he’s the tenth. He’s been there before, dealt with all of this, he’s dealing with it right now, so we need to leave before he finds us. Any other questions I’ll answer on the way. Okay?” Without waiting for an answer, he pulled a lever, starting up the engines.

“So back to Baker Street, then.” Accepting this, John nodded, settling in for the ride. “I didn’t realize until now, but I really miss Mrs. Hudson’s cooking.”  
xxxxxxxxxxxxx  
Over the roar of the vacuum, the landlady of 221 heard a knock at the door. Setting aside her cleaning bucket, she pulled open the wooden door and let out a shriek of delight. 

“John! Oh, and Sherlock too, come in!” She pulled both men inside, patting their shoulders and beaming. “It’s been ages, where’ve you been?”

John chuckled. “Er, just busy, I guess. Had a case.”

“A case?” she exclaimed. “You were gone for months! And you haven’t been eating enough, either of you, I can tell. Come in, then, I’m sure I have something. I’ve kept up your flat,” she added, bustling off towards her own rooms. “I just couldn’t bear to see it let out. Just one call would’ve been nice!” She stopped at that, turning back to implore Sherlock.

“I know, and I’m sorry,” Sherlock told her, kissing her wrinkled cheek. “It was for your own safety. Very secret, mysterious case.” He glanced back out the open door at the small blue box sitting tucked away against a building across the street. “John, why don’t you tell her about it.” He moved towards the door.

John looked up at him, thrown by this unexpected move. “But- I thought it was all secret?”

“Just do your best. You are a storyteller, aren’t you?”

“Sherlock-”

“Won’t be a moment.” He stepped outside and shut the door behind him, cutting off John’s protests. The Doctor was waiting for him, leaning on the side of the TARDIS. He strode across the street and looked the Time Lord in the eye. “Several months?”

He shrugged. “Yeah, sorry about that. You were here in this universe, remember, even if you were sleeping. You’re important, you know,” he told the detective. “I’ve no idea what would happen if your timelines crossed, even if from a distance.”

“Like yours did,” Sherlock observed. The Doctor shrugged again.

“I’ll probably have some mopping up to do with that, yes. I try to avoid busywork like that when I can.” He grinned. “Adventures are much more fun.”

“Right.” He stood there a moment more, hands shoved in the pockets of his coat, unsure what to say, until John saved him. 

“Sherlock? Mrs. Hudson’s making a welcome-back dinner, and she’s been dusting again.” He stood in the door of the building, calling across the street. “You might want to have a look.”

“Of course.” Sherlock turned back to the time-traveling alien, nodding a quick farewell. “Perhaps I'll see you again.”

“Perhaps you will.” The Doctor eyed him for a moment, then grinned, sticking out a hand for the detective to shake. “See you around, Mr. Holmes.”

As Sherlock walked back across the street, Clara's voice asked, “So how long do you think it'll be before they get married?”

“Who, John and Sherlock?” He glanced over at Clara, who was leaning on the slightly open TARDIS door. “I give it a few years. Two or three, I'd say. What do you think?”

“Oh, I bet they never do,” she said with an easy grin. “Look at them, they'll never admit they're in love.”

The Doctor shrugged lightly, grinning as well. “Maybe we'll have to do something about it.” 

Clara raised an eyebrow, her smile widening. “Maybe we will.”

“But not today,” the Time Lord said, shoving himself off the TARDIS wall. “Time to go, I think.” Without waiting for an answer, he pushed past Clara, shutting the door tightly behind him.


	28. Okay

“So where to next?” the Doctor asked, dashing over to the console and flipping an entire line of switches. “I’m thinking somewhere exotic. What about Barcelona? The planet, not the city, I’ve been meaning to go there for ages, never quite got around to it.”

“Doctor, no.” Clara interrupted. “Shut up and sit down and tell me what’s going on because you are not okay.”

“Okay? Of course I’m okay, I’m always okay. Maybe you should call me that: Doctor Okay.” He grinned, listening to the title ring around the room, then saw Clara’s face. “No? Fine, then. It is a bit rubbish.”

“I’m serious, Doctor.” She propped her hands on her hips. “You’re not, I can tell. You’re trying too hard.” 

“I might be better if I didn’t always have people nagging after me!” He stopped, turning away abruptly. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. It’s been a long day, that’s all.”

“Is that all?” she persisted, but now he ignored her completely. 

“So not Barcelona, then. Alright, what else? Any ideas?”

Clara sighed, her heart breaking for her friend. “Doctor, listen to me-”

“A surprise then. The TARDIS can pick, she hasn’t chosen in forever.” He punched a few more buttons, then pulled the massive lever, letting the machine go where it would. “All yours, dear.”

“Doctor, stop it, right now.” She stepped forward and slammed the lever back down, earning an angry whirr from the TARDIS. “Something happened in that dream world, something big, and it hurt you.” She eyed him carefully. “Something with Rose.”

By the way his face tightened, then cleared of all emotion, Clara knew she was right. “How can you do that?” she asked softly. “Just push everything away, shut it all down, everything you’re feeling? How do you do it?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” He wasn’t looking at her. 

“You do too.” Looking down, Clara realized her hands were clenched in the fabric of her skirt. She untangled her fingers, trying to release some of the tension with the movement. “If you'd explain what's happened so I can understand-”

“Clara, my Clara, you can’t.” The Doctor smiled, though not quite at her. “No one can understand. The thing about pain is that it’s isolating. No one else can feel exactly the pain you’re feeling. So even if you had watched someone you love disappear right before your eyes, not for the first time, and not been able to do anything about it; even if you have spent centuries losing people over and over and over again, you still wouldn’t be able to understand.” 

His hands were shaking, and he rubbed his eyes angrily. Clara listened in stunned silence. “And knowing you’re worried, it’s kind, very kind, but the pain of that is so much less than it would be if you knew everything.

“I can feel you worrying for me, you know,” he added, running a hand through his hair. “I know you’re doing it, and it’s good, that’s what friends do. I’ve had years and years of people worrying for me, and it never does any good. Just forget about it, please.”

“I can’t, Doctor, and you know that,” she told him firmly. “Bottling it all up like that, you’re going to go insane-”

“It’s keeping it down that keeps me sane!” he roared, pacing tight circles around the console, arms flying everywhere. “A thousand years of pain and grief and loss and guilt, if you feel all of that, all at once, it’ll destroy you like that.” He snapped his fingers for emphasis.

“But you-” A creak stopped Clara in her tracks. She and the Doctor both looked over to see the TARDIS doors swinging open, revealing a long, pale beach. 

The Time Lord had gone deathly pale. “Doctor?” Clara asked, not quite sure why she was whispering. “Is that Barcelona?”

He shook his head. “Därlig Ulv Stranden.” 

“And in English, that is…?”

“Bad Wolf Bay.” His entire demeanor had changed now. Only moments before driven by rage and pain, he was now empty, drained, broken. Slowly, step by step, he walked out the door, his feet dragging slightly in the soft sand. Clara, sensing this was important, followed. 

“This was where I saw her last,” he murmured, staring off into the bay. “The real her, I mean. Twice, actually. The first time, when I thought it was forever, and the second time, when I knew it was. Except…” 

He could hear her name in the rolling waves, see her tear-streaked smile in the clouds just above the horizon. Slowly, his walls broken down, he began to explain. 

“We were ready to come back, to wake up. Had everything figured out. She would come back through, and we’d be traveling again, just like we used to. Except…”

“She was part of the dream, wasn’t she?” Clara asked softly. “The whole time?”

The Doctor nodded. “I should have seen it, it was obvious, I just…” He trailed off, wiping his eyes as if astonished to find them wet. “I didn’t want to.”

“Of course not.” She looked at him a moment more. “Doctor, who was she? I know she was your companion, but…” But it was her in that world for a reason, she thought, silently finishing her own sentence. And then, Would you be that broken if it were me? “What happened to pull you two apart?”

He hesitated for a long time, so long she was almost sure he wasn’t going to answer. When he finally did, his voice was so soft it was nearly lost in the distant crash of the waves. 

“Battle of Canary Wharf, they called it. London, 2007. Daleks, Cybermen, Torchwood, and us, all fighting for something different, nobody really sure who to trust. We did a lot of hopping around between universes - the wall had been breached, it was easy. But the Daleks and the Cybermen were doing it too. We had to send them back. So Rose and I, we stayed behind to close it up. Each of us on one side of this corridor, holding on with everything we had with the void pulling us in, making sure the computers stayed on.”

Clara did her best to follow along, though she didn’t understand most of the words. Cybermen? Dalek sounded at least a little familiar. And what was a Torchwood?

“She grinned,” the Doctor remembered, a ghost of a smile flickering across his own face as well. “Daleks flying everywhere, hair blowing in her face, and she grinned, because that’s what we did, her and me. Saved the world, put ourselves in danger, but always together. I was grinning too.”

Will that be us? Clara wondered, but kept it to herself. Saving the world - how does that get to be a game?

“And then something hit her lever.” The smile was gone now. “Knocked it out of position, the system started to go offline.” He shook his head bitterly. “It had to be hers. She- she let go, reaching for the lever. And she got it in, too.” 

How can someone sound so proud and so heartbroken at the same time?

“The suction went back up,” he continued, his voice emotionless. Already he was shutting down again. “Lifted her right off her feet, until she was just hanging on with one hand. I was screaming her name, telling her not to let go… But it was just too much.

“Her father caught her,” he added, “just at the last second. Brought her through to that other universe, safe and sound. And then it closed.” He shrugged lightly. “And I was on the other side.” 

“But that was London,” Clara pointed out. “How did you see her here?”

“I didn’t, not really,” he admitted. “Just a projection of me. To say a proper goodbye.” He chuckled. “Burned up a sun to do it, too. And I didn’t quite manage to tell her- well, I didn’t say everything. Ran out of time.” He shook his head. “Somehow I always do.”

They stood there for a while longer, the Doctor having said all he would and Clara not sure what else to say. The silence was comforting, though, and the knowledge that a friend was there. Finally, the Doctor stepped back into the TARDIS, holding the door open for Clara to follow. 

The wooden door closed tightly behind them with its customary creak, and moments later, the engines began their peculiar whirr. Slowly, the little blue box began to dematerialize, leaving in its place an empty beach and a single rose.


End file.
